Darla took two more pictures, nodded at what she saw on the little screen and slipped the phone back into her purse.

“Now let’s get those dress handles out of your hands before your fingers go numb,” Darla said, snapping the heavy brass clasp on her handbag shut.

We crossed the paved lot to Darla’s gray Buick sedan, parked under a light pole.

I opened the back door, and Sadie laid the long plastic bag across the velvet seat, smoothing out every wrinkle in the black cover with her flat palm.

She climbed in beside it and pulled her seat belt low across her lap so she wouldn’t lean on the fabric.