When all four jackets were pressed smooth, I picked up the wooden hangers and walked to the tall closet beside the entryway.

Grace hangs the four ironed navy blazers in the cabin closet.

Morning light struck the pine table at seven thirty, throwing long yellow rectangles across the oilcloth.

I set four ceramic bowls of warm oatmeal on the placemats while Henry fixed his shirt collar in the reflection of the dark kitchen window.

He slid a sheet of white grid paper across the table, covered in careful blue ballpoint ink.

“This is the main rotor assembly on the Sikorsky HH-60 Pave Hawk,” Henry said, standing beside the stove with his feet shoulder-width apart.