The third box held the carved mesquite porch sign Harold had made from salvaged fence posts in 1982, its deep-cut letters cushioned between two wool blankets.

The fourth box held the yellow paint swatch from the Tucson hardware store, slipped into a stiff plastic sleeve beside my bank draft records.

I went back and forth between the casita door and the open trunk for forty minutes, my shoes silent on the dry grass.

The house stayed completely dark.

The high bathroom window in the master suite was shut tight against the night, its blinds drawn flat.

When the fourteenth box was wedged into the back seat beside my little canvas overnight bag, I lowered the trunk lid until the latch caught with a soft metallic thud.