“Please don’t touch anything. The insurance folks need to see it first.”

“Okay.”

A long steady bell rings. Brandon gazes back at the garage. “Got another customer. I’ll be right back.”

When Brandon’s out of sight, Ashif sweeps a gloved hand over a window to clear the snow and peers in. He can’t see anything through the frost. He tests the driver’s side door. It’s locked. He tries the back door. To his surprise, it opens. He glances back at the garage then throws his briefcase in and slides inside.

Light seeps through the frosty windows, casting a pale glow over the interior, like light seeping through cracks of ice. The shadow of a pine-tree air freshener hangs from the rear-view mirror. He sees his father’s head, too. A circle like a full moon that almost touches the roof. He reaches out to touch it.

Ashif feels something under his feet. He reaches up for the light switch but it doesn’t work. He clicks on his cellphone and pans the lighted screen over the interior. The floor and seat are littered with debris, which surprises him. His father’s car was always so well-organized and tidy. Something shimmers between the front seats. A dry-cleaning sheath. He rubs his fingers against the edge of the sheath to separate the plastic, then knots it at one end.

He scoops up paper cups, a crushed water bottle, a yellow chamois cloth. From under a seat, a box of tissues patterned with wild geese. He yanks the pine-tree air freshener off the rear-view mirror, presses it to his nose before throwing it into the bag. Then he reaches deep into the front seat and retrieves the garbage from the floor: gum wrappers, an empty can of club soda, crumpled-up serviettes. He pushes his feet against the back seat to steady himself and stretches to the driver’s door. In the side panel, he finds several maps neatly banded together with elastic, one of Canada, the others of Alberta, as well as several pens. He tears the suede sleeve from the steering wheel, his fingers fumbling with the strings. Then he shifts to the other side, snaps open the glove compartment, and continues his excavation. He finds a vinyl organizer and a black notebook with a pen clipped to the coil binding. He throws them into the thin, sagging bag. From the front seat, he clatters together the handful of CDs. His breath is shallow, his brow wet. He pats the pockets on the back of the front seats as if he is frisking them. He reaches in and removes handfuls of small notebooks, bundled into sets of four.

Suddenly, the front passenger door jerks open. Sunshine pours in. Ashif shields his eyes.

Brandon leans into the car, blocking the light. “Hey! What are you doing in there?”

“I’m leaving,” Ashif says, shoving the notebooks into the bag.

“Just put the stuff back in the car and I’ll pretend it never happened, okay?” Brandon offers.

“I’m taking it,” he says, the bag firmly in his grip.