Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
I looked through the glass and saw my brother near the edge of the property. He was kneeling in the tall grass, his tool bag open beside him, his head bent as he worked on the rusted hinges.
“We need to buy more wood for the porch steps eventually,” I said, slicing the bread into even pieces on the cutting board. “But the structure is solid.”
“It will last the winter,” Martha said, pouring the soup into two ceramic bowls. “The water heater is working, and the pipes are dry. That is what matters.”
We ate our lunch at the small wooden table near the window. The kitchen was warm, the steam from the bowls rising into the light.
There were no packed bags by the door, no silver key rings lying on the counter to remind me of what had been taken. The thick blue folder was tucked away in the drawer of the desk in the hallway, signed and settled.
When Shaun came inside, he wiped his boots on the mat by the door and set his hammer on the counter. He took a piece of bread from the board and leaned against the refrigerator.
