I took the spare key from the little tin box I kept hidden in the spare tire well of the trunk and fitted it into the lock on the Buick’s driver’s door.

The lock clicked open without a sound.

The night air was seventy-two degrees, still holding the warmth of the afternoon concrete.

I carried the first box across the dark lawn and set it gently on the wide blue carpet of the trunk.

It held six framed black-and-white photos of Harold from our early years in Tucson, three blue cotton tablecloths, and my ledger books from four decades back.

The second box held my clothes, tightly folded and wrapped in tissue paper.