My right thumb went to work on its own, rubbing a dried smear of white glue off the skin beside the nail.

I pushed the first box aside, reached for the second, and pried its cardboard flaps apart.

It held old owner’s manuals for the table saw and three rolls of brown packing tape gone dry and brittle.

The third box was empty except for a few rusty deck screws rattling around the bottom.

By the fourth box my shoulders ached, and the clock on the workshop wall ticked past eleven twenty.

If the paper wasn’t out here, Vanessa had carried it off when she loaded her leather suitcases into Rob’s car.