I walked past him and opened the heavy wooden door to the clerk’s office.

Emma looked up from a coloring book on the receptionist’s desk.

“We’re going to Elm Street to pack your things,” I said.

“You’re coming to live with us.”

Emma stood up and put her crayons in her pocket.

At five o’clock, my boots crossed the hardwood floor of the living room in the Elm Street house.

Eleanor carried a stack of flattened cardboard boxes in through the front door.

The house was quiet, and the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rug.