He shut the trunk, got into the driver’s seat, and pulled slowly out onto Elmwood Lane without honking.

I reached into my coat pocket and felt the cool, smooth metal of David’s brass wristband under my fingers.

The cold air seeping in around the window frame didn’t smell of cinnamon coffee or old paper anymore.

It was clean, sharp and still.

I reached up and pulled the heavy sash down until the latch caught with a solid click, closing the room off from the draft.

I took the brass wristband out of my pocket and slid it onto my left wrist, next to my wedding ring.