The trunk of the sedan stood open, its yellow interior bulb throwing a pale circle onto the gravel.

I set the bin down in the trunk beside my spare tire.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel behind me.

Margaret came out of the garage’s shadow, wrapping a red-and-white checkered dish towel around her fingers.

“Brent told me you were moving boxes,” Margaret said.

“Just clearing out the filing cabinet,” I said.

She reached out and rested one hand on the cold edge of the trunk lid, folding and unfolding the corner of the towel with her thumb.

“You didn’t come in for supper,” she said softly.