I let the crumpled receipt drop into the kitchen trash can.

The gray plastic lid swung shut.

A man in a blue work shirt walked in through the open back door.

He carried a stack of folded moving boxes under his left arm and a red plastic tape gun in his right hand.

He set the supplies flat on the kitchen island.

“That’s the last of the heavy wooden office furniture loaded on the truck,” the man said.

“You can start on the pantry next,” I said.