I packed my last box on Wednesday morning.
The apartment looked bare, with pale rectangles on the walls where framed pictures had hung. I'd taken down the small shelf above the kitchen sink and scrubbed the dust from the brackets. The green mug sat in the open-first box. The photograph of Eli and me was tucked between sweaters, its frame wrapped in a dish towel.
A truck was scheduled for six the next morning. I had booked a cheap room in Alderport for the first week, close enough to walk to the Harbor House site. I had a start date, a key pickup appointment, and a list of contractors to meet.
What I didn't have was a plan for Eli.
He knocked in the late afternoon. When I opened the door, he held out a paper bag.
"Diane made too much bread," he said.
"She always does."
"I didn't know
