Emma turned around just before the door closed.

She looked at me from the threshold, her hands resting quietly at her sides.

The corner market was completely quiet by six o’clock.

Eleanor had gone home early to start the evening pot roast and turn on the porch lights.

I sat alone at my wooden desk in the back office.

The overhead fluorescent bulb hummed a steady note against the ceiling panels.

I sorted the day’s register receipts into three neat piles on the desk: morning coffee sales, afternoon groceries, evening snacks.