“I spent two hours on the state unemployment website last night,” Ethan said, leaning his forearms on the cold metal railing.

“What did you change on your account?” I asked.

“I changed my official mailing address to a post office box on Main Street,” he said.

“My mother won’t get any more of my mail at Elm Street.”

He reached into his inside coat pocket and took out a folded letter printed on heavy white paper.

“I got a phone call on Tuesday afternoon,” Ethan said, keeping his eyes on the parking lot below.

I adjusted my watch strap, pulling the leather tight against my wrist.