The blue security paper of my vehicle title lay on the kitchen island next to my leather briefcase.

I ran my thumb along the laminated edge, checking the clean black print that showed zero liens and only my full name: Iris Elizabeth Collins.

My phone sat on speaker, propped against a mug of cold black coffee.

“The board approved the regional budget at five yesterday, Iris,” David Miller said.

His silver pen clicked twice over the line from his desk in Seattle.

“When you’re back on the second, we’ll have your formal offer as senior structural engineer ready to sign.”

“I have the seismic assessment reports for the Bellevue skybridge packed in my bag,” I said.

“I can go over the load calculations this weekend.”

“Leave the bridge files in Seattle,” David said, his voice slow and deliberate.

“Take four days off.

We want to announce your career move to the whole regional team right after New Year’s.”

“I appreciate that, David,” I said.

“Have a good drive down to Portland,” he said.

“We’ll talk on Tuesday.”

I slid the blue title into my leather travel folder next to my passport, packed the silver bracelet wrapped in green foil for my mother, and snapped the brass latches of the briefcase shut.

The wipers on my seven-year-old silver Toyota beat a steady rhythm against the slush on Interstate 5 south of Tacoma.

Rain smeared the red brake lights of a freight truck ten car lengths ahead of me.

My mother’s voice came through the hands-free speaker, crackling a little from the mountain tower signal.