The sign hung straight on the second try.

I tried the new lock twice and then took the trash down the back stairs.

At six thirty I parked across the street from the old New Canaan house with the last of the house keys in my coat pocket.

The lawn had been freshly mowed.

The brass mailbox had been polished until it shone.

Wyatt’s car wasn’t there.

The house sat dark behind its curtains.

The mailbox door was stiff.