“Then we’ll have breakfast.”

“Daddy says you live in a tiny place now because you don’t like our house.”

“This place suits us just fine this morning,” I said, sliding the heavy binder into a thick cardboard shipping box.

I sealed the box with two strips of clear packing tape and pressed the shipping label onto the front.

By three that afternoon, rain was pounding on the glass storefront of the commercial courier office on Trumbull Street.

The clerk at the counter weighed the box on a digital scale and stamped the top corner in red ink.