I folded the paper and slipped it into my purse, my fingers feeling cold against the leather.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Would you like me to flag the profile for a security review?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “Just print the signature card for my attorney.”
She handed me the document, and I walked out into the cold afternoon air, the paper heavy in my hand.
The space heater in the corner of my kitchen hummed, its orange coils casting a warm glow over the worn linoleum. Caleb sat at the wooden table, using a plastic butter knife to scrape dried glue off the wheel of his broken blue plastic truck.
I stood by the counter, holding a plain white envelope I had found wedged behind the metal flag of our mailbox. There was no stamp on it, and my name was printed in block letters with a thick black marker.
“Did you see anyone come up the walkway today, Caleb?” I asked.
“Only the mail carrier,” he said, not looking up from his toy. “But she didn’t leave that one.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I was looking out the window for the school bus,” he said. “A man in a gray car stopped by the curb, walked up, and put it in the box. He didn’t even ring the bell.”
I slid my thumb under the paper flap and tore it open.
Inside was a single square of glossy paper.
It was a photograph of me. I was standing on the curb outside my old apartment on Duval Street, wearing my old gray sweater. My hands were resting on the curve of my belly, heavy with the quadruplets.
The photo was taken from a low angle, through the windshield of a car parked across the street.
“Who is that, Mom?” Caleb asked, pointing a sticky finger at the paper.
“An old picture of me before you were born,” I said, my voice staying flat.
I turned the photo over. On the back, a blue ink-stamp showed the date: October fourteenth, three years ago.
My fingers felt stiff as I laid the print on the counter.
Someone had sat in a car and watched me walk to the grocery store when I could barely carry my own weight.
“Did you find the extra wheels?” Caleb asked.
“They are in the blue basket by the door,” I said.
He stood up and scrambled toward the hallway, his sneakers squeaking on the tile.
I picked up the photo again. My face in the picture looked tired, my hair pulled back in a messy bun. I had been carrying a plastic grocery bag with two loaves of bread and a carton of milk that cost four dollars and ten cents.
The shadow of the steering wheel of the car that took the picture was visible in the lower corner of the frame.
I put the photo in my pocket and walked to the phone.
David’s legal aid office smelled of old paper and stale coffee. The single window looked out over the dark alley behind the courthouse, where the streetlights had just turned on.
I laid the black-and-white photograph on his desk next to the black leather binder.
