I had paid for mine from a small savings account that prison had nearly emptied; I didn’t know if the lock would still be there.

Opal drove me herself.

She insisted on waiting in the car until I asked her to come inside.

“Some things need a witness,” she said.

Inside the unit sat two cardboard cartons, a broken office chair, and a plastic bin containing Christmas decorations I had forgotten I owned.

The first carton held invoices, insurance forms, and old employee photographs.

The second contained documents from the months surrounding Loretta’s illness.

I lifted a yellow folder labeled NORTHBRIDGE.