She didn’t wait for me to answer.

I followed her in, and the familiar smell of lemon floor wax and stale roasted coffee hit me as soon as I stepped over the threshold.

By 5:30 p.m.

I was sitting at the kitchen table with a soft flannel cloth and a little bottle of copper-wire brass polish.

The kitchen window looked out on the backyard, where my father used to keep his garden tools lined up by length.

Daniel came in through the garage door without knocking.

He had on a crisp blue dress shirt, and the gold ring on his right hand made a sharp clink against the glass edge of the kitchen counter when he put down his car keys.

“Well, look at you,” Daniel said, his voice booming into the little room like a loudspeaker at a briefing.

“Home from the desk job just in time to watch the real work get done.”

“It was an operational command in Kuwait, Daniel,” I said.

“It wasn’t a desk job.”

“Same thing in the long run,” he said, dragging out a wooden chair and sitting down across from me.

He tapped his ring twice on the tabletop.

“The regional board meets December 6 at the Grand Regency Hotel.