Before I shut the door I flipped down the visor and checked my uniform in the little mirror.

Collar flat.

Ribbon rack level.

Name plate straight above the pocket.

I squared my shoulders and closed the door quietly.

The gravel had been raked that morning.

Someone had hung a wreath on the side door, orange and brown, for a season my father had never cared for.

Three black SUVs came up the drive at seven minutes past five, single file, and the first one stopped short of the portico so its tires wouldn’t kick up stones.