The edges of the box were soft and worn from handling. It looked like it would have fallen apart, except for the layers and layers of packing tape stretched across the top. I laid the box knife on the table. Despite the heavy August air, my arms had goosebumps. Terry sat across from me, gazing at the pool or perhaps, staring off into the woods behind the house. I couldn’t really tell.
“Is that all of them?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, ‘cept for maybe a couple. Pam took some of them when she left and I ain’t got them back.” He ground out the remainder of his cigarette in the flower pot turned ash tray beside him.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me, in your own words, about that day?” With pen in hand, I settled in to hear a story I knew well, but that I had never heard him tell me.
Terry began talking. For some time, I furiously took notes in an abbreviated shorthand, but as he got into the story, I quit writing and just listened and watched. Occasionally writing down a question to ask later.