He didn’t get out again, but his brake lights flickered every time we put another bag in the back.

Sophie kept checking her phone clock as she latched the hatchback.

“He wants you to fall apart and call him, Mom.”

“He wants me to sign his land waiver,” I said.

“He wants this done before December twelfth.”

We drove six blocks south to the three-story brick apartment building on Oak Street where Sophie rented a place on the third floor.

The stairwell smelled of old carpet, pine cleaner and fried onions from the first floor.