Frank gathered the signed pages into a tidy stack, slid them into his leather briefcase, and shut the brass latches with a double click.

By two that afternoon, a big yellow moving truck sat against the curb on Maple Street.

Two men in canvas aprons carried my solid oak bed frame down the front steps, their work boots thudding in rhythm on the wooden porch boards.

Daniel sat on the bottom step with his knees drawn tight to his chest, wearing his gray wool sweater with the fraying cuffs.

He didn’t look up when the head mover stopped to ask where the heavy tie-down straps were.