It also came with the image of myself walking in with James’s suitcase while everybody moved chairs and said they wished I had told them earlier.

I stayed home.

At 7:20, James’s shoes were lined up on the living room rug and his shaving kit sat open beside them.

I had folded one shirt twice and still could not get the sleeves to lie flat.

The third time, a white receipt slipped from the pocket.

I picked it up by the corner.

It was from the gas company, dated six days before we left for Portugal.

Beneath our address was a meter inspection number and a printed finding: “Within normal limits.”