“Recorded who?”

“Dad and Mom.” His voice broke on Mom. “At 11:42, Dad made her sign something.”

That was when I saw the manila envelope, half-hidden under a printed Disney itinerary. On top of it were two school forms, one folded medical intake sheet, and a blue pen with its cap chewed nearly flat.

Marissa’s handwriting was on the envelope.

Temporary placement.

I’d spent most of my life as a careful man. Thirty-eight years managing warehouse inventory, which meant I believed in dates, labels, signatures, and counts that matched what was actually on the shelf.