I sat in the cold car for a long minute, holding my mother’s silver filigree locket between my thumb and index finger.

I flicked the tiny clasp open with my thumbnail and looked at the faded, unreadable letters scratched by hand inside the silver case.

I tapped the screen, typed in my last debit card number and approved the two-hundred-dollar charge.

The phone chimed once and showed a green receipt confirmation along with a priority shipping barcode for the twenty-four-hour postal kiosk down the street.

Ten minutes later I was standing in the small, fluorescent-lit vestibule of the Elm Street post office.