His hand was warm, and for a few miles I let myself remember the man who had once driven across town to buy me soup when I had a cold, then sat at the kitchen table while I complained about the price of oranges.

At the end of the driveway, I had noticed that the front door was not quite shut.

I mentioned it, and Michael said he would lock it when we came back for the scarf I had forgotten.

He turned the Buick toward the main road.

I did not know then that the bank envelope would matter more than the grocery receipt, or that the photograph in my handbag belonged to a man who had spent years trying to find me.

All I knew was that I had agreed to go, and Michael was taking me somewhere quiet.