“There’s a county envelope in your mailbox.

I left it there.

I didn’t want to be the one handing it to you.”

I finished the row before I went to look.

The envelope had a seal and no explanation, and I carried it into the kitchen and set it under the salt shaker without opening it.

At noon I drove to the hardware store for white porch paint, sandpaper, and brass screws.

The man behind the counter was a stooped old fellow in a green apron who weighed the screws one at a time on a little brass scale.