“Where are those men going, Mommy?” she asked.

“They are taking away some old papers, sweetie,” I said, walking over to sit beside her.

“Are they bad men?”

“No,” I said, smoothing her hair behind her ear. “They are helping us clean up.”

She accepted this with the simple trust of a three-year-old and went back to talking to her bear.

I looked up as footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Julian was descending, wearing a dark gray overcoat.

He looked at the men carrying the boxes, then down at Emma and me.

“The office in the city is ready,” he said.

“We should go inspect the docks before the afternoon ice sets in.”

“I’ll get my coat,” I said.

I kissed Emma’s forehead and left her in Margaret’s care in the kitchen.

The drive into Chicago was silent.

Julian drove himself today, without the usual trailing security cars.

The city skyline appeared through the winter haze, gray and imposing.

We turned off the main highway toward the industrial port area of the North Shore.

The roads here were cracked and rutted, bordered by high chain-link fences topped with barbed wire.