“We need to get the rest of Noah’s clothes and his crib from the house,” I said.

“I’ll drive us to Elm Street,” my father said, opening the rear door for the car seat.

We rode in silence for the fifteen minutes it took to cross town from the bank to the neighborhood.

The early autumn sun hit the red brick front of the Harrison house at three thirty, casting long shadows across the concrete driveway, where my blue SUV sat parked behind my father’s sedan.

Ethan stepped onto the driveway first and held my car door while I swung my booted foot out onto the pavement.