The blue plastic cup in my hands was greasy with dust, having sat in the dark of the pantry since the day the police came to our door. I turned the tap, letting the hot water wash over my fingers while my sister Clara watched from the doorway.
Clara set her car keys on the kitchen counter. She held out a folded white flyer with a smudge of blue ink across the top.
I did not take it. I scrubbed the rim of the cup with a yellow sponge.
“They have an open house today, Caleb,” Clara said. “Just to look. Nobody is asking you to sign anything.”
I rubbed my left palm with my thumb, feeling the dry ridge of my scar. I cleared my throat before speaking.
“I have the garden to clear before the ground freezes,” I said.
Clara laid the flyer next to the sugar bowl and walked out to her car, leaving the kitchen door latch to click behind her. The paper stayed there on the yellow laminate, the words Oakhaven Childrens Home facing the ceiling.
By noon, the clouds had turned the color of wet slate. I drove my used Buick, the one that had cost me 4,500 dollars after the insurance settlement, down to the east side of town.
I pulled into the gravel lot of the children’s home at two o’clock. The rain started then, heavy and straight, drumming against the metal hood of the car.
A woman in a dark trench coat walked out from the double doors, holding a plastic-wrapped folder over her head. She tapped on my passenger window.
I rolled the glass down three inches, letting the cold spray hit my cheek.
“Mr. Miller?” she asked.
I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
“I am Deirdre,” she said, her voice dry and even. “The coordinator here. We don’t usually do parking lot consultations, but your sister said you might need a push.”
She thrust the wet packet through the gap. I could have started the engine and backed out onto the main road, but my fingers stayed on the steering wheel.
“Come inside,” Deirdre said, tapping her glasses against her notepad. “The radiator is on.”
