I slid the little paper card out and tucked it into the side slot of my leather wallet.

Behind a stack of green plastic lawn chairs, shoved hard against the drywall, I spotted the edge of some dark wood.

I dragged it out into the light.

It was our old carved mesquite porch sign, heavy and rough along the edges, with our family name cut deep across the middle.

Daniel had pushed it back there eighteen months earlier, when he drove the moving truck up from Tucson.

I ran my fingers over the smooth bottom edge where Harold had sanded away the thorn knots before he hung it above our front door.