The autumn chill hit us the moment we stepped onto the back porch, the damp Ohio air smelling of fallen leaves and wet earth.
Our gray sedan sat in the gravel driveway, dark and slick under the yellow glow of the carriage light on the garage.
Julian unlocked the doors with his key fob, the high beep sounding small against the steady drizzle.
We got in together, the dome light casting a pale yellow glow over the dashboard.
I reached under the passenger seat, my fingers brushing against a stray receipt and an old napkin, while Julian emptied the glovebox.
He pulled out the registration folder, a tire pressure gauge, and three plastic water bottles, tossing them onto the middle console.
“It has to be here,” he muttered, his voice tight.
