I went back to the car, put the briefcase under a mat in the trunk and locked it. It was noon, lunchtime, but I wasn’t hungry. I drove instead to a supermarket, not one I usually went to, and began to stock up. It was food mostly, canned goods and meats and bread. The air was cool enough, I thought, that none of it would spoil in the trunk of the car overnight. I also bought a pail, a mop, a broom and dustpan, some floor cleaner and wax, soap and toothpaste, and a new toothbrush for my new start. In all I spent more than eighty dollars and had enough food for a couple of weeks. I would spend more, tomorrow or the next day, in the little town near the cabin, where there would be paint and ladders and hopefully some old furniture. I felt desperately eager to be going, for it to be completed; I had to keep reminding myself that it would take time; I must learn to be patient, to make no mistakes, leave no gaps. To finish everything here.

It was time to find the lawyer’s office. After that, the place, so vivid in my mind, would be mine and freedom would be so close. I tried to be calm, but I could feel my body trying to push ahead the time, the blood rushing, the muscles quick and tense; I forced myself to breathe slowly, to let the muscles relax, but then there would be a surprised surge of excitement and it would all begin again.

(I don’t think I could feel that way now. I’ve learned, I hope, but I knew so little then.)

I parked the car and went around to the trunk. Under all the groceries and underneath the mat was the briefcase. I pulled out the two envelopes that held the thirty-seven thousand dollars, relocked the trunk and went into a low building that seemed a little shabby, a little failed. The lawyer’s office was on the second floor, and I was surprised when I reached it, for I didn’t know that lawyers still had such places; I pictured them all with brightness and modern furniture and strategically-placed plants and woven drapes. This was very old, dark and dusty with small windows and venetian blinds, ancient, chaotic-looking files sprawled on desks, and an old-fashioned wooden railing instead of a counter, with a swinging gate through which I was admitted.

The lawyer resembled Mr. Chapman. I wondered if they might be brothers, but the names were different, and it must just have been their grayness that made them seem similar. “Mrs. Phillips?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m here to see you and Mr. Chapman.”

“Right this way, you’re very punctual. Irv isn’t here yet but he should be shortly. Meanwhile, maybe you’d like to look over the papers I’ve drawn up? I understand you’re paying cash?”

“That’s right.”