The cold rain from the night before still pooled in the shallow cracks of the concrete driveway outside.

At a quarter past eight, I walked out to the garage, where Mark was loading a leather golf bag into his trunk.

The morning mail had already come through the slot in the front door, and I held a thin white window envelope from the Franklin County Auditor in my right hand.

“Mark,” I said, keeping my voice low but loud enough to carry over the idling engine.

“This came for the house.