Behind the screen door downstairs, Vanessa stepped into the entryway wearing my blue flannel bathrobe, the sleeves rolled up twice over her wrists.

She held a small silver hand mirror up to her chin and checked her teeth in the morning light before turning the brass thumb latch on the inside of the door.

Mark reached for a second brown box on the bedroom floor and dropped it over the wooden sill.

It split open at the edge of the driveway, scattering two mismatched sneakers, an old winter scarf, and four plastic coat hangers across the asphalt.

“You can pick your cardboard boxes up off the grass, Claire,” Mark said.