I stumbled onto the driveway in my socks, and the porch light flooded the garage door. Marla stood there with the roller still dripping, her hood pushed back, her gray hair stuck to her wet cheeks. She did not run. She just looked at me, exhausted, and whispered, “I am so sorry. I did not know how else to make you look.” My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Grant appeared behind me, rubbing his eyes. “Marla?” he said. She set down the roller and pointed with a shaking finger at the freshly painted black stripe. “Look closely,” she said. Then, from the street, a car engine idled, and its headlights swept across the garage, revealing something beneath the black paint that made my stomach drop.