“That’s sixteen hundred and forty dollars even.” He counted my bills twice, then folded the receipt and stapled it to the outside of the bag.

“For the warranty.

Keep it dry.”

I took the long way home, past the old house on Cleveland where my grandfather’s initials were still burned into the workshop doorframe.

At the kitchen table I put the bag down and pulled the receipt off it.

Three failed attempts from a network no one could identify.

A lock scratched open in my own house.

A message from a state office sitting in my mother’s purse.