Because I had twisted my ankle on the gravel shoulder of Route 9, I hadn’t been able to walk back into the Elm Street house to get my work documents myself.

“Come in,” I said, leaning against the doorframe to let him pass.

Ethan walked into the hotel room, set the coffee cups on the nightstand, and placed the blue plastic folder right in the middle of the neatly made bed.

“I went to the public library when it opened at seven,” Ethan said, his voice hesitant and low.

“I printed these straight from your online business portal.”

I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the stack of paper out of the blue folder.