At three o’clock the light came through the living room window in one long bar across the floorboards.

The street was quiet enough that I could hear a dog two doors down.

Clara slept.

The swing ticked.

I stood at the glass with the new key in my palm.

Across the street the Gleasons were raking, and a boy on a bicycle went past without turning his head toward our house, which was the point of the whole morning.

Lucas’s letter sat in the drawer by the telephone, folded in thirds, where I keep it now.

I checked the back door, and both windows, and then I came back to the entryway.

I turned the key.

The deadbolt went home with a quiet, solid click.

The front door was locked, and the house was finally quiet.