I climbed the porch steps and rinsed my hands under the brass faucet at the outdoor sink.

The water ran down the drain with a low, even sound that didn’t echo.

The mesquite sign hung flat against the white siding over the porch swing, held level by two heavy iron hooks I had screwed into the wall studs with my own hands.

The black carved letters of our name sat crisp in the wood, sealed against the desert weather.

I sat down on the white oak swing.