The light plastic felt cool and smooth against my skin, weightless compared to the heavy metal fob Linda had buried in her fist on the Elm Street porch weeks ago.

I ran my index finger along the rounded edge of the yellow plastic key.

It was easy to remember the exact weight of the blue folder on the attorney’s mahogany table four weeks ago.

I remembered the quiet scratch of the notary’s fountain pen as the official seal was pressed into the clean white paper of the vehicle title.

I remembered Linda sitting across the long conference table in her dark navy cardigan, her arms crossed tight against her chest while her attorney reviewed the bank receipts.

Six months of my business checking statements had sat on that table in neat, chronological order, every single three-hundred-eighty-dollar loan payment highlighted in yellow.