The blue envelope held no farewell letter. It contained a copy of our recorded deed, a list of household accounts, and a folded map marked with twelve circles. My name appeared beside Elias's on the deed with the phrase joint tenancy, language I only half understood. At the bottom of the map he had written Saturday, final route, ten sharp. Tucked behind it was the card of attorney Lenora Price, whom I knew as a passenger Elias once drove to dialysis before she received a transplant.

I called Lenora at seven. She confirmed the deed made the house mine without waiting for probate. The original was safely recorded at the county office. When I told her Nora had opened the envelope and taken the bedroom, Lenora grew quiet. She advised me not to argue alone and offered to come that afternoon. I said there would be no need. Even then, I was trying to make my humiliation convenient. Lenora asked what the circles on the map meant. I recognized the towns as stops served by the volunteer medical transport network Elias had coordinated from our kitchen. Until then, his promises had lived only in memory.

Nora came downstairs while I was copying the documents. She said Elias had promised Cal the workshop and that family property should not disappear into my side of the family. I reminded her I had no children and no mysterious side waiting to inherit. She reached for the blue envelope, claiming it contained private Walsh business. I pulled it against my chest. It was the first possession I had defended since the funeral. Nora stared as though I had raised my voice. Then headlights swept across the pantry wall. A white transport van had stopped at the curb, although Saturday was still two days away.