At five o’clock, I went out into the Scottsdale garage to get my laundry basket off the storage shelf.

Chloe was perched on a blue plastic storage bin by the lawnmower, her knees drawn up tight inside her school sweatshirt.

“You should be in the house doing your spelling list, Chloe,” I said, reaching up for the plastic basket on the top rack.

“I already finished it,” she said quietly, winding a strand of dark hair around her index finger.

She glanced toward the open kitchen door, then down again at her rubber-soled sneakers.