“My associate says the all-cash buyer from last month is still very interested,” Phoebe said, her voice already shifting into the crisp, surgical register I had relied on for eight years.

“No contingencies.

We could close in seventy-two hours if you’re certain.”

I stared at the glowing keypad beside my own grand front doors — the keypad that had, a few minutes earlier, beeped an angry red and refused to let a postpartum woman and her newborn in out of the rain.

“I’m certain,” I said.

“Tell him I’ll sign an expedited purchase agreement tonight.”

“Where are you going right now, Jessi?”