I locked the casita door at nine and drew the shade down over the glass.

The heat of the desert day still clung inside the stucco walls, leaving the air dry and thin.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled my leather purse onto my lap.

From the inside pocket I took the yellow paint swatch I had saved from our kitchen wall in Tucson, the little card rubbed soft at the corners where my thumb had rested for forty years.

Next to it I laid out the four folded pages from Arthur Vance’s office.