He went off toward Vine Street with his coat open and his hands in his pockets, and I stayed on the wet bench with the yellow envelope in my lap and the coins in my fist.

Four days, and a closing on Friday at noon, and a warrant sitting in a woman’s handbag.

Arthur’s porch light was the only one lit on his street, and it had been on since I called him from the bus shelter.

He opened the door before I reached the top step and looked at my shoes, then at the water running off my sleeves onto his concrete.

“Hall closet, second shelf,” he said.