Lisa was already gone when I walked into the kitchen half an hour later. She’d left a key to the front door and a card telling me how to disarm the security system, as well as a note to help myself to “whatever” and giving me directions to the Verizon store, a mile and a half away, as well as to the parole office, where I had a one forty-five appointment. She’d also left a check for two thousand dollars. I called the bank to tell them you’d be cashing it, she wrote. When you get your phone, figure out what laptop you want, call me, and I’ll order it for you using my credit card. She also suggested I take an Uber to the Verizon store, but I wanted the freedom of the walk.

I locked the front door and began walking down the sidewalk from the house, stopping halfway to the street when my gaze was drawn to the concrete beneath my feet. One of the blocks of concrete contained three sets of handprints, clearly those of a man, a woman, and a child. Beneath each, a name had been carved: Jesse, Bernice, and Lisa. Sweet and whimsical. Lisa could have been no older than ten when the handprints were made. I tried to imagine my own parents taking the time or interest to create such a lasting memento of our family. Impossible.

I cashed the check without a problem at the bank on Broad Street and opened an account for myself at the same time. Then I walked to Verizon, bought a phone and earbuds, and committed my new number to memory. A new number for my new life. I plugged into my old Spotify account—the music I hadn’t been able to listen to for more than a year—and I loved every second of the walk back to the house, singing along with Rihanna and Maroon 5 and Ariana Grande, feeling my freedom. Back at the house, I used the phone to figure out what computer I wanted, then called Lisa to have her order it, asking her to get overnight shipping. I was desperate to begin restoration research.

Before I’d left the gallery the day before, Oliver had talked to me about how I wanted to handle working with the mural. “Do you think you’ll need a heat table?” he’d asked. “Or would you rather work on a stretcher on the wall? Wyatt and Adam’ll make whatever you need. I’ve been working with them for a while now and they’re excellent woodworkers.”

I’d opted for the stretcher, having no idea what a heat table was. I was in way, way over my head.