“Douglas needs hard physical evidence of what Trevor did today,” my father said.

“We’re going back right now to document the outside of that door.”

Ten minutes later my father pulled his black truck onto the dark shoulder across the street from my driveway.

He switched off the engine and kept the headlights off.

I walked up the snowy front path by myself, the winter air cold on my neck.

Under the yellow glow of the porch light, I stood perfectly still, staring at the legal notice taped to the glass panel of my own front door.

Dad’s basement workshop smelled of sawn pine and old machine oil.