The leather latch on Julian’s briefcase clicked twice, a sharp, empty sound that did not belong in our quiet kitchen at a quarter past six.
He turned the bag upside down over the linoleum table, letting a yellow legal pad and three black ballpoint pens slide across the clean surface.
I hung the damp dish towel over the oven handle and watched him search the pockets.
“It is not in here, Dani,” he said, his voice rising just enough to make me look up.
Julian was usually a quiet man, the kind who folded his socks before putting them in the drawer and never had to search for his keys.
“Did you check your coat pocket?” I asked.
He did not answer, his fingers already digging into the dark wool of his overcoat where it hung near the back door.
The fabric rustled as he shoved his hands deep into the lining, his shoulders tense under his blue dress shirt.
“I had it when I left the office, Dani, I am almost sure I did,” he said, turning back to face me.
He rubbed his forehead with the flat of his palm, his usual sign of exhaustion, though his eyes looked wider than they normally did after a long day at the consulting firm.
“We can try calling it,” I said, reaching for my own phone on the counter.
“It is on silent,” he said, his voice flat. “I turned the ringer off during the afternoon meeting and never turned it back on.”
He stood by the table, his hands empty, looking down at the scattered pens as if they might offer an explanation.
“We should look in the car before the rain gets any heavier,” I said.
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.
He shoved his hand into the narrow space between the driver seat and the center console, his knuckles scraping against the plastic.
“Julian, calm down, it is just a phone,” I said, touching his shoulder.
He pulled his hand back with a sudden jerk, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.
“It is not just a phone, Daniella,” he snapped.
The sudden noise filled the small car, leaving a heavy silence between us.
Julian had not raised his voice to me in three years, not since the summer we lost our garden to the groundhogs and he had spent two days in the sun trying to rebuild the fence.
He stared straight through the wet windshield, his chest rising and falling beneath his damp shirt.
“I am sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice returning to its usual quiet tone. “I just have a lot of important files on that device.”
“We will figure it out,” I said, repeating the phrase he always used when our old furnace started knocking in the winter.
He did not reply, his fingers wrapping around the steering wheel as he stared at the dark dashboard.
The cold was beginning to seep through my slippers, so I reached for the door handle.
“Let us go back inside and get some dinner,” I said. “You cannot find it in the dark anyway.”
The kitchen smelled of vegetable soup, the pot still simmering on the back burner of our electric stove.
A four-dollar gallon of milk sat on the counter, sweating slightly in the warm air of the room.
