I wrote Sarah’s number on the back of a grocery receipt and put it in his hand.

He looked at it, then past me, down the hall toward the stairs.

“I’ve got a whole rack of yellow mums at the store that nobody’s buying,” he said.

“I’ll bring you a flat on Saturday, if that’s all right.”

Rain began ticking on the porch roof, slow and steady, finding the gutter.

I turned the deadbolt, set the brass latch, and drew the chain across until it dropped into its track.

At seven the next morning the kitchen smelled of warm soap and formula, and I had a cardboard box open on the floor.