“Thank you, Mr. Voss,” I said.

He nodded once, then walked toward his sedan parked further down the dirt road.

I got into my vehicle and started the engine.

The heater blew cold air for the first few minutes as I navigated the winding mountain road down toward the highway.

The weight of the box in the back felt heavy, like a physical anchor.

I drove through the night, the headlights cutting through the dark Texas pine trees.

By the time I reached the suburbs where my mother lived, the sky was turning a pale, cold grey.

Her house was a large, modern structure sitting at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.

A single light was burning in the kitchen window.

I parked my SUV in the driveway, turned off the engine, and sat in the silence for a moment.

My hands were tight on the steering wheel.

I reached into the back seat, pulled the metal box from beneath the blanket, and stepped out into the cold morning air.

I walked up the concrete path to the front door, the heavy metal handle of the box digging into my palm.