“Where are those boxes going?” I asked the mover.

The man wiped grease off his forehead with his sleeve.

“County liquidation warehouse in Flint.

Everything gets cataloged and sold at public auction by Friday.”

“Those are private family records,” I said.

“Take it up with the boss,” the mover said, jerking his gloved thumb back toward the porch.

“We’re getting paid to clear the place by noon.”

He went back into the house to carry out my old oak bedroom dresser, leaving me standing by myself on the gravel.