By noon on Sunday, Arthur’s letter was folded twice inside my coat pocket, and the Elm Street door was standing open before I had even unbuckled the car seat.

Patricia filled the doorway with a dish towel draped over her arm and looked past me toward the car.

“There she is.

Late for her own dinner.”

“The invitation said noon.

It’s twelve o’clock.”

“Brandon’s been here since eleven.” She turned back inside and didn’t hold the screen door.

I carried Toby up the walk with the corner of the envelope digging into my ribs.