“In the lockbox in my study,” he said, without looking up.

“With your insurance cards.

We’re consolidating all the family paperwork so nothing ends up misplaced.”

He headed out toward the garage before I could reply, leaving his half-eaten toast on the counter beside a heap of unopened junk mail.

I sat at the table for five minutes with my hands motionless in my lap.

By eleven the heat outside had climbed past ninety degrees, and the air in the casita felt thick and still.

I heard a heavy truck rumble up the gravel drive and come to a stop near the back gate.