Since Wendy’s car was parked at the airport, her garage was probably empty. At the moment I didn’t plan to retrieve her car, even if I found an extra key, because I was still optimistic that she’d need it soon. In the driveway I got out of my Civic to punch in the garage door code my mother had given me. Undoubtedly the remote was waiting for my sister at the airport, too.

Inside the garage I began to unload my canvas bags on the passenger side. “Girls, get whatever you took to Gram’s and put it back in your room.”

I expected grumbling, but they were silent. I watched as they each took one small thing and started toward the door.

“You can carry more than that, right?” I had three bags under one arm and two under the other. I looked behind me and saw they were making faces at each other. I was encouraged. It was the most normal thing I’d ever seen them do.

I made a face, too, but not so they could see. “Each of you bring in one more thing. You’re strong. Like Wonder Woman.”

The door opened into a narrow mudroom leading into the kitchen, with a half bath tucked to one side. The kitchen was medium-size and standard issue, with a greige tile floor and plenty of white cabinets over gray laminate counters, along with a small jutting peninsula furnished with two black metal stools. A louvered door hinted at a pantry, while the farthest counter fronted on a small dining area. Beyond that a screened porch looked over a wide yard and the woods behind.

“Hey, this is nice.” The town house was more upscale than my duplex in Delray, even though mine had midnight sound effects by Harley-Davidson. I was guessing that most of the residents in this development had given up their motorcycles for golf carts.

Neither girl responded, something I was fast getting used to.

On my second trip inside, with the two girls trailing with more bags, I took a better look through the downstairs. The house looked clean enough, but cluttered. Papers were piled on counters, as well as end tables in the great room. That room itself was large and open, with a vaulted ceiling sporting dual skylights. The laminate floor was home to two sea-grass rugs dotted with sofas and chairs and a square glass coffee table, also covered with papers. I didn’t see anything that would indicate children lived here except, possibly, a large screen television with a basket of remotes beside it. I wasn’t worried. Judging from at least one of the bags they’d reluctantly brought inside, they’d taken games and stuffed animals with them to my parents’ house.

“Do you girls usually play in your room?”

Neither answered. I was catching on. In the future I would have to single out one of them by name.

“Run upstairs and put your things away,” I said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”