On the stairs coming down, I stepped on a receipt.

Four pairs of ski boots, sizes twenty-six through twenty-nine, dated last Saturday.

Downstairs the van doors shut, once, then twice, then a third time, which meant they had loaded something else.

The van sat in the driveway all afternoon with the doors closed.

Nobody came in for lunch.

Beverly had the little ones on the rug with the wooden blocks.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, and my granddaughter brought me a book and climbed up against my side.