I set my bag down and pulled the curtain back a hand’s width.

The closet door stood open.

Abigail’s backpack sat on the shelf, front pocket unzipped, one earbud cord hanging out of it like a loose thread.

I took Charles by the elbow and walked him into the corner by the sink.

“You filled out her admission form,” I said.

He looked at the cup.

“The front desk must have pulled the old records.

From the divorce file.