She held a blue ceramic mug in her right hand, steam curling past her cheek into the chilly garage air.

“You’re still standing out here?” she asked.

She glanced down at my winter boots, then at the lone cardboard box on the workbench.

“Julian has to pull his car in before six,” Harper said.

“The morning damp out here ruins the leather seats.”

“The middle bay is clear,” I said.

Past Harper’s shoulder, Arthur sat at the head of the kitchen table.

His reading glasses were pushed high on his forehead, and his thumbs gripped the morning paper so hard it creaked along the front-page fold.