The clerk’s official seal was still damp on the heavy cream paper when we stepped out of the Oak Creek courthouse into the cold morning air.

We drove back down Highway 18 to Pine Ridge without turning on the radio, my 2004 Buick LeSabre gliding smooth and quiet over the new asphalt.

By ten o’clock, the sun had broken through the clouds and filled the little kitchen on Birch Street with light.

I picked up a yellow cotton cloth and wiped down the Formica table, working around the faded tea ring by the window.

Claire stood at the sink, peeling a red McIntosh apple with a wooden-handled paring knife.