“There’s no survey office here.”
“Not anymore.”
Richard pointed toward the small park at the center of Larksburg Court.
Behind the playground stood an old brick maintenance building that I had assumed belonged to the HOA.
“That?”
“The building predates the neighborhood.”
I looked from the building to my house.
“My father worked there?”
“For almost two years.”
Twenty minutes later, Denise had packed three leftover pieces of fundraiser cake into a cardboard container “because nobody should investigate family secrets hungry,” Walt had invited himself until his wife called him home for dinner, and Sergeant Major Ortega had wisely announced that he had already participated in enough unexpected reunions for one afternoon.
That left Richard, Ethan, and me walking toward the old brick building.
Carlos caught Ethan before we left.
I heard only part of their conversation.
“You all right?” Carlos asked.
Ethan shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Apparently I don’t know anything about my family.”
Carlos smiled faintly.
“Welcome to adulthood.”
Ethan gave him an annoyed look.
Carlos squeezed his shoulder.
“For what it’s worth, you handled the mat better after you lost than before you stepped onto it.”
Ethan looked away.
“I was acting like an idiot.”
“Sometimes that happens too.”
Their conversation stayed with me.
By the time Ethan caught up with us, he seemed quieter.
The maintenance building sat beneath two oak trees near the far edge of the park.
I had walked past it dozens of times.
Up close, I could see that one side was older than the other.
The brickwork didn’t match.
Richard unlocked the exterior door with his HOA key.
Inside were shelves of folding chairs, gardening equipment, paint cans, traffic cones, and boxes containing years of neighborhood Christmas decorations.
Ethan stared around.
“This is the big secret?”
“No.”
Richard walked toward the back wall.
Behind a stack of plastic tables was a narrow wooden door I had never noticed.
He moved the tables aside.
The brass key fit.
My pulse quickened.
The lock resisted once.
Then turned.
Richard opened the door.
The room beyond was small.
Dust floated through a shaft of evening sunlight.
An old drafting table stood against one wall.
Metal filing cabinets lined another.
Most were empty.
A faded map of Larksburg County hung crooked beside a corkboard.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing frightening.
Just a forgotten office.
Yet I knew immediately that my father had been there.
A mechanical pencil rested in a groove along the drafting table.
Green tape was wrapped twice around its middle.
My father wrapped green tape around everything.
Flashlights.
Tools.
Extension cords.
Once, when I was ten, I asked him why.
“So I know what’s mine,” he said.
My mother had laughed.
“Nobody else wants your extension cords, Daniel.”
“You don’t know that.”
I picked up the pencil.
For a second, I was standing in our old garage again, watching my father mark measurements on scrap wood.
Ethan noticed my expression.
“His?”
I nodded.
Richard stood near the doorway.
