The cicadas started around seven, all at once, the way they do in the middle of August.

David sat on the top step with his back against the post.

I sat beside him and took the velvet box from my bag and the soft cloth from my pocket.

“You carry that around now?” he asked.

“I’ve been carrying it since June.”

The brass had gone dull along the rim.

I worked the cloth into the lettering with my thumb until the metal warmed.

“My father kept it in a tin box with the land surveys,” David said.