“For what?”
“So he doesn’t get to skip straight to the part where we save him.”
She stared at me for a long second. Then she looked at him.
He said quietly, “If that’s what it takes, I’ll go.”
The next morning, we drove out there.
The old house was gone. In its place stood a small rental with a porch that needed work and a fence leaning off to one side. An older man stood out front holding a rake.
I walked over and introduced myself. I explained that my mother had once lived on that lot and that there had been a fire there when I was a baby.
He looked at my mother, then at me.
“I remember hearing about that place when I bought it.”
His name was Walt.
He told us that years ago, during renovations, workers digging near the old kitchen footing found a metal recipe box wrapped in oilcloth and buried intentionally. He had kept it because it seemed personal, and because his late wife always told him not to throw away things people had hidden with care.
My mother’s hand went to her mouth.
“Was it blue?” she asked.
Walt nodded.
