My father shifted his shoulder, his brass military lapel pin catching the lamplight where he had pinned it to his dark jacket.

“What would have to happen before you’d ever think about going back there?” he asked, his voice slow and measured.

“I’m never going back to Elm Street,” I said.

“I’m going to rent an apartment.”

“You can’t carry groceries or drive with that foot,” my father said.

“Then I’ll hire help or wait until I heal,” I said.

“I have temporary officers’ quarters reserved four miles from here starting Friday,” my father said, resting his hands on his knees.

“There’s a second bedroom and a ground-floor entrance with no stairs.”