A car passed on Route 30 and didn’t turn in, and I noticed that I had looked up.

Gordon’s final bill came to four hundred and twelve dollars.

The check was already written and folded in my bag.

My phone buzzed once against the porch railing.

My father, two words.

Lock works.

The wind blew in off the field and the maple dropped leaves onto the walk I had swept at noon, and I decided I would sweep it again in the morning.

I carried the mug inside and set it in the sink, and the top drawer was closed with the legal pad inside it, balanced and square, the good pens lying beside it.

Then I pulled the door closed behind me.

The key turned smoothly, and the bolt dropped into place with a firm metallic click.

The brass latch caught cleanly and held the heavy oak door perfectly still.