I came out through the kitchen door at twelve forty and left the light off, because the switch sounded loud in a way it never did in daylight.

He never locked the car.

In twenty-three years he had not once worried about this neighborhood.

I started with the visor.

Then the little console between the seats, where gas receipts curled up like dead leaves.

A rubber band and a dark red hair tie were twisted around the gear shift, and I left them where they were.

The pocket in the driver’s door had a folded envelope in it, thick paper with a window.

I carried it to the step, where the porch light came under the door in a thin yellow line, and read it.