“Good,” she said.

“Call me if anybody shows up at the front door.”

When she left, I locked the deadbolt behind her.

For the first time in fourteen years, I was going somewhere because I chose to.

The rental apartment smelled of fresh white paint, clean cotton and lemon furniture polish.

The living room had a brown vinyl sofa that felt cold through my trousers, though the cushions were firm when I sat down.

I carried my brown leather suitcase into the bedroom and laid it flat on the navy blue bedspread.