It was the note my mother had left on the kitchen counter fifteen years ago, the night she walked out.

“The original,” Malcolm said, handing it to me in a protective plastic sleeve.

“And the court filings?” I asked.

“I will submit the certified copies to the probate judge at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Malcolm said.

“The court will have them on record before you even reach the mountain pass.”

“Good,” I said. “Keep the copies safe, Malcolm. Do not let anyone know you have them.”

“Be careful up there, Avery,” he said. “The roads to Idaho Springs are already freezing.”

I walked out of his office and down to the parking garage.

The air in the concrete garage was freezing, smelling of exhaust and damp cement.

I started my truck, the engine roaring to life with a heavy rattle.

I drove through the slushy streets of downtown Denver toward the industrial district.

The Northline Logistics warehouse sat under a gray, heavy sky.

Rows of blue and white semi-trucks were parked in neat lines, their engines silent.

I parked near the loading dock and walked inside.