I pulled open the top drawer and slipped the title in beside Chloe’s birth certificate.

The drawer clicked closed.

By eight the following morning, the yellow Formica counter held a saucepan of oatmeal and a box of sixty-four crayons.

Chloe sat at the table in her socks, drawing a sun with long orange rays.

“Want more brown sugar?” I asked.

“Two shakes,” she said.

“Not three of them.”

I stirred the oatmeal and counted out two shakes over her bowl.