At nine, the house was dark except for the yellow streetlamp near the corner. Sophie was asleep in her room, her door cracked so a sliver of light lay across the hallway floor.
I sat on the wooden floorboards in the living room, next to the pile of winter blankets we had not yet unpacked. Under the heavy wool, the corner of my old green footlocker was visible, its metal latch locked tight.
I reached down and let my fingers brush the cold steel of the padlock.
A pair of headlights turned onto Elm Street, the beams sweeping across the front window before the engine cut out.
A silver sedan sat idling under the oak tree across from Arthur’s house. The driver did not get out, and the interior lights remained dark.
I stood up slowly, keeping back from the glass of the window, watching the shape behind the steering wheel. The car sat there for five minutes, the engine a low, quiet purr that was barely audible over the hum of my refrigerator.
A phone screen flared green inside the sedan, illuminating the driver’s face for three seconds before going dark again.
I rubbed my uneven wrist, the coldness of the window glass radiating against my skin as I watched the street.
The sedan shifted into reverse, its tires rolling silently over the asphalt as it backed away from the curb.
It turned the corner toward the main road, the red brake lights of the silver sedan glowing in the dark street.
The post office lobby smelled of wet wool, damp cardboard, and floor wax when I walked through the double doors at eleven. Outside, a persistent June mist had begun to coat the streets of Oakridge, turning the pavement slick and gray. Two older women were murmuring near the stamp dispenser, their low voices echoing in the high, tiled room.
Behind the security counter, Jerry, a postal clerk who had worked the counter for twenty years, was sorting mail into a wooden cubby. He looked up, his thick glasses sliding down his nose, and gave me a quiet nod.
