Three mornings later, at nine o’clock on the fifteenth of January, he carried the last taped cardboard box up the three wooden porch steps of the small yellow rental house on Willow Street.

The front door stood wide open, letting the sharp winter sunlight fall across clean, freshly varnished oak floors.

Daisy ran past his work boots in red wool socks, sliding three feet across the hallway boards into the sunny living room.

“There’s a little closet built right under the stairs, Mr.

Whitmore,” Daisy called, pointing at the wooden door beneath the landing.

“That’s for heavy winter coats and rubber boots,” Nathaniel said, setting the box down near the kitchen counter.