The Buick’s horn tapped twice down at the paved circle, the sound flat and impatient against the wet hillside.

I slipped the photo and the folded yellow pages into the inside pocket of my coat, tucked the rabbit into my deep outer pocket, and carried the cedar box against my ribs.

Sarah didn’t look at the box when I climbed into the front seat, and I kept both hands flat on my knees.

The eleven-year-old Buick hesitated between second and third as we climbed the river hill out of Oakmont, the transmission whining before the gears finally caught.

We didn’t speak until we reached the kitchen, where the radiator rattled against the baseboard.