He would not make a guess sound like a fact.

At four o’clock, Robert’s kitchen table held a small wooden box, the folded baby blanket, and the two pieces of paper I had carried through the past four months.

I opened the box and laid Linda’s letter inside.

The photograph of the silver-haired man went beside it, face up.

Robert did not suggest framing it.

He let the box be small.

My attorney called.