“Sunday,” he said through the window.

“Bring the ledger.

I want to see those stamps.”

The house was quiet at five in a way it hadn’t been in years.

I poured coffee into the clean mug and carried it outside, and the front door didn’t rattle when the wind picked up.

I sat on the porch step where the paint has worn down to bare wood, and the light stretched long and gold down the driveway.

Across the street a man was raking leaves onto a blue tarp while his wife told him he was doing it wrong, and he did it her way.