His backpack was almost empty.
A folded shirt.
A bottle of water.
A paperback book.
And a small wooden box.
I drove him to the shelter.
Before getting out, he looked at me.
“What’s your name?”
“Martha.”
“Thank you, Martha.”
I smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
He reached for the door.
Then he stopped.
“Do you still live near the elm trees?”
I frowned.
“Yes.”
He looked at me strangely.
“Then I may see you again.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Three days later, there was a knock at my door.
It was Albert.
He wasn’t standing there alone.
He was holding an old quilt.
“I think this belongs to you.”
I stared at it.
The quilt was faded blue and cream.
I knew it immediately.
It had belonged to my mother.
My heart began beating faster.
“Where did you get that?”
“From Estelle.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is Estelle?”
