Rebecca was standing beside the open trunk of her silver sedan, holding a cardboard moving box.

Two plastic totes sat on the wet grass near her rear tires.

I shut off the engine, took the photograph, and stepped out onto the gravel.

“Look at this,” I said, walking straight across the wet grass toward her bumper.

Rebecca didn’t drop the box.

Her right hand let go of the cardboard and slipped the top horn button of her dark wool coat out of its loop.

“You shouldn’t be in my driveway, Megan,” she said.