I placed the paper beside the old key and went into the living room.

A box of legal copies sat on the coffee table, delivered there with other belongings while access was being arranged.

I put my hands on the sides, then thought better of lifting it.

“Sophia, would you move that to the office?”

“Of course.”

I had learned something during rehabilitation about asking before I hurt myself.

It was not the sort of lesson my family had tried to impose on me.

It was an ordinary limit I could acknowledge without handing over the decisions about my life.