The quiet street was cold, the wet maple leaves stuck like dark coins to the damp concrete.

The front door of Frank’s house was standing wide open when I came up the porch steps at ten twenty-five.

Cold autumn air blew through the front screen, carrying the smell of floor wax, pine oil and stale furnace dust.

Gene was already in the living room, stacking heavy corrugated moving boxes along the wooden baseboards.

Every box had a thick red marker label: PERSONAL – MARA or DISPOSAL – SHRED.

“You can take the photo albums in the den sideboard,” Gene said, not looking up as he pulled brown packing tape across a box.