“Thank you for helping me, Greg,” I said.

Mr.

Vance, the landlord, walked down the concrete path from his office, carrying a brass clipboard and a pen.

He looked at the packed car and then back to me, his expression tight and formal after the disruptions of the past week.

“The keys, please, Mara,” Mr.

Vance said.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ring containing my apartment key and the mailbox key.

I placed them into his open palm, the metal cold against my skin.