Arthur took the bills but did not put them in his wallet.

He stood by the counter for a moment, his hand clenched around the paper money until it wrinkled.

“We should go,” he said.

We walked out into the gravel parking lot behind the coffee shop.

The autumn wind was cold, rattling the dry sycamore leaves against the pavement.

Arthur stopped beside his heavy black truck.

He stood by the driver’s side door, his fingers tapping his car keys against his palm.

“Do you still have that small framed childhood photograph of your grandmother, Mara?” he asked.