“I know,” I said, and set it on top of the box marked kitchen.

The box was already full of spatulas and measuring cups and the good knife I had bought myself for my fiftieth birthday.

He watched me tape the box shut.

The morning sun came through the window over the sink and caught the dust I had stirred up.

“You’re really doing this,” he said.

“I am.” I picked up the box and carried it out to the truck.

The belt on his Ford was quiet for the first time in months, and I noticed it the way you notice a clock that has stopped.