When we reached the next intersection, he slowed and checked the road before turning toward the park.

“You’re going to like it,” he said.

I looked at the bags behind us, at the thermos wedged between them, and then at the house key hidden in my pocket.

“Let’s hope so,” I said.

Michael drove on without answering.

Over the next miles I kept returning to the bank envelope and the photograph.

The heater rattled.

The odometer passed another thousand.