My hands moved on their own, organizing the white paper strips by time of day, but my mind stayed parked on Elm Street.

I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the folded blue paper.

I flattened the carbon copy of last year’s cashier’s check in the center of my desk.

Pay to the order of Mark Stevens.

Forty thousand dollars.

Dated January twelfth.

Seven years ago, on the rainy shoulder of Highway 24, I knelt on the asphalt and held my daughter’s hand while the paramedics worked on the wrecked car.

Laura had looked up at the flashing red lights and made me swear one last oath.