We sat in the dark living room, the green numbers of the microwave clock in the kitchen casting a faint glow across the linoleum floor.
By eight the next morning, the sun was already hot on the gravel driveway.
The blue sky was wide and clear, without a single cloud to soften the glare.
A grey sedan pulled up near the mailbox, the engine idling with a low, irregular cough that sounded like dry leaves in a gutter.
Roy climbed out of the driver’s seat, his movements slow and deliberate, his gravelly voice barely carrying over the sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower.
“She has the bag with the brass key on it?” Roy asked.
He pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket and began to write with a stubby yellow pencil.
“Yes,” I said. “And the green top.”
Roy took off his wire-rimmed glasses and used the wide end of his silk tie to clean the lenses, his eyes small and watery in the bright light.
“We will start with the bus station on Broad Street,” he said.
