The black electrical tape he had wrapped around his canvas shoe sole was already fraying at the heel, showing a sliver of white sock underneath.

My mother, Grace, came out through the porch screen door carrying a heavy yellow ceramic pot wrapped in a folded kitchen towel.

“I saw your car coming down the lane,” Grace said, setting the warm pot down on the wooden bench beside the porch swing.

She wiped her hands over and over on her canvas apron, her eyes searching my face as I walked up the wooden steps.

“Where are Mark’s bags?” Grace asked softly.