“You don’t understand how municipal paperwork works,” Mark said, stepping around me toward the driver’s door.

“Cash is just cleaner for everyone during tax season, Mom.”

He got into the front seat, pulled the door shut before I could hand him the page, and backed out onto the wet street without looking into the rearview mirror.

I stood near the end of the driveway until his car turned the corner at the stop sign.

The paper felt damp in my fingers, so I folded it twice and slipped it into the front pocket of my sweater.

At half past eleven, I walked the three blocks to the Lane Avenue Diner to meet Martha, who had lived next door to me on Elm Street for thirty-two years.