I turned back to the stove and poured the boiling water over the dark coffee grounds. The steam rose in a thick cloud, carrying the bitter, rich scent of the cheap roast I had bought yesterday. On the corner of the counter, the grocery bill lay face up, ninety-five dollars and sixteen cents for a basket that barely filled two paper bags, a quiet reminder of how much the world had shifted while we were looking the other way.
“He kept every single scrap of paper,” Daniel said. His voice was clipped, the syllables short and dry as winter twigs.
“Your father was a careful man, Daniel,” I said, smoothing the cotton of my skirt with both hands before I sat down opposite him. “He had to be, keeping that land together after you were listed as missing.”
Daniel pulled a thick cardboard shoe box onto his lap. The corners were split and held together with yellowed masking tape, smelling of dry pine and the old barn where he had found it. He lifted the lid and began laying out the contents on the table, sorting them into neat, small piles.
