Tina cried before she could speak, then shook her head and said she could not accept it. I reminded her of the Saturdays I had tutored and the pies I had sold to buy that car, and told her it had always been meant to carry people who needed carrying. I pressed the keys and the signed title into her hand. I asked only that she drive her son to every therapy appointment without counting the buses. She hugged me the way she had at twelve, all elbows and relief, and by ten forty the garage stood empty except for a faint stain of oil on the concrete.

At eleven, Rachel arrived with a stranger in a gray jacket, her heels announcing her from the driveway. I opened the garage door myself. She stared at the bare floor, then at me, and asked where it was. I said the car belonged to a former student now, legally and completely, and that the title was signed. The buyer quietly excused himself. Rachel called Daniel, her voice climbing, and he came within the hour. I had already set the brass lock box on the dining table, beside the ceramic mug, and I opened it for both of them.