By four in the afternoon, late autumn sun filled the spare bedroom at the end of my hallway in Oak Creek.

The house was quiet and warm and smelled of cedar oil polish and the vegetable soup simmering on the stove.

Claire and I carried the last two small storage boxes up the hallway carpet and put them down near the foot of the bed.

She unpacked a three-shelf pine bookcase and stood it against the north wall, giving the top shelf a firm push to check that it sat level on the hardwood.

“This top shelf is where these go,” Claire said, lifting a heavy cardboard shoebox held shut with two elastic bands.