The front parking lot was almost empty, just three crew trucks parked by the tool shed and Frank Doyle’s blue sedan by the front steps.

The building was dead quiet when I unlocked the front entrance and climbed the carpeted stairs to the executive floor.

My office door stood open, and the desk lamp on the oak table threw a round pool of yellow light over my blueprint rolls.

I sat down in my high-backed leather chair and picked up the small brass frame next to the desk calendar.

It was a photo from twenty-two years earlier, taken at our first concrete pour on the Trinity River bridge job.