He had put on a jacket and tie for a Tuesday.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“Sign the release.”

He did, and I signed under him, and the clerk went back into the vault with the key and came out with the long metal box, empty now and lighter than I remembered, the felt worn pale at the corners.

“Your father rented that box the year after you were born,” she said, sliding the release across for a stamp.

“It has never once been late.”