It showed the date of my final payment thirty-six months ago, stamped by the credit union in downtown Seattle.

The registration card next to it was current, paid through the end of January, with my name and Seattle apartment address typed in clean capital letters.

The bedroom door opened without a knock, swinging wide until the brass knob hit the painted baseboard.

Chelsea walked in holding a half-empty glass of sparkling water.

She unzipped her soaked nylon jacket and tossed it into the middle of my bed.

A patch of cold rainwater spread into the quilt right next to my open document folder.