The automatic timer under the truck dashboard ran out, and the yellow headlights faded into total darkness.

I tucked the white envelope with the legal suspension notice into my coat pocket, turned the truck around in the dark driveway, and drove away from my house.

By seven the next morning, I was standing at the foot of the narrow wooden stairway beside the East Dallas laundromat.

The air smelled of industrial laundry soap and damp brick as I climbed to the top landing and knocked three times on the weathered green door.

Rebecca undid the top latch, opened the door just wide enough for me to slip in, and locked all three deadbolts behind us.