The heavy front door clicked shut, leaving me alone on the porch with the blue tax folder.

By six o’clock the house on Elm Street was completely quiet.

Uncle Raymond had gone home to his apartment, leaving three packed boxes of Dad’s manuals sitting by the front door.

I walked into Dad’s study and turned on the brass desk lamp.

The room smelled of old paper, cedar shavings, and the mint throat lozenges Dad kept in his vest pocket.

I pulled out the bottom drawer of the metal filing cabinet beside the old desktop printer.