At eight in the morning, the kitchen of the small wood-frame cottage on Oak Street smelled of burnt toast and ground chicory.

Two months of snow had rinsed the red autumn mud off the driveway, leaving the gravel clean and sharp under my sedan’s rear tires.

I stood beside the stainless steel percolator on the counter, watching the glass knob on top fill with dark, bubbling coffee.

On the other side of the yellow Formica table, Ethan stuffed a blue binder into his canvas backpack and zipped the side pocket closed.

“Did you pack the vegetable soup or the turkey sandwich?” I asked him.