On Tuesday, the doorbell rang just past 1 PM, although it was tough to hear through the sound of Porkie barking. She had started as soon as she heard tires on the gravel.

It was Mark. His shirt today was a bright, neon yellow, printed with his landscaping company logo.

"Hi. Thank you so much for coming," I said when I opened the door, as if Mark had come to a housewarming party instead of a business engagement. Was I always this awkward? Porkie stood just behind me, giving another couple of barks for good measure. "Beware of the guard dog."

"Hello." Mark glanced down at Porkie with an amused grin, then thumbed over his shoulder. "Just checking in before I get started. You still good with the lawn and that one tree with the broken branch?"

"Yes, that's perfect. I know I need to do the other trees, too, but..."

"I understand. Everybody's got a budget. I'm not going anywhere, so you can just give me a call when you're ready for the rest."

"Thank you." I hadn't told him that I wouldn't be here for very long, but I didn't bother to share it now.

"I'll get to work and come see you before I leave so you can make sure everything looks good."

"Will you need a check, or...?"

"Nope. Everything's digital now. I'll invoice you after we're done, if that's alright with you."

"Even better."

"Perfect. Shouldn't take me but a couple of hours to get her all done."

"Thanks again, Mark. Let me know if you need anything."

I lingered in the doorway as he stepped down off of the porch and headed back toward his truck. Porkie barked a final time, then snorted with disapproval and turned away. After I had closed and locked the door, I peeked through the sheers and saw him unloading a ladder.

My plan for the day while Mark took care of the outdoors was to inventory the contents of one of the boxes I'd found in Gran's closet, the one labeled Documents (MOSTLY IMPT!).

I sat at the dining room table, where the box was already waiting for me, along with a glass of water and the notebook where I had been making all of my lists and reminders.

"Alright. Let's see what's in Gran's high tech filing cabinet."

Porkie settled into the dog bed in the dining room corner, her head on her paws, to supervise.

I took the lid off of Gran's very flammable, very water damage-susceptible cardboard box, marveling at the fact that she had kept anything important in such a container. Inside were a couple of folders, some sheaves of paper, and a yellow manila envelope.

The manila envelope contained identity documents, not just for Gran but for my grandfather, Burton, too: their social security cards, their birth certificates, a marriage certificate, and Grandpa's death certificate. I held these items gently, only for long enough to identify them, before laying them carefully out on the table to stare at the evidence of lives that had started so long before mine.

"Grandpa's middle name was Lee," I said. I had never known that. I suppose I'd never had a reason to know it, but it surprised me, now, that I hadn't—it was Tim's middle name. How had I not known that he'd inherited that from Grandpa?

I had no idea what to do with all these things now that they were in my possession, but making a list seemed like a solid place to start.

It usually was.

Just as I was moving on to the next set of documents, I heard footsteps on the porch. A loud rap came at the door, which made Porkie lose her mind again. I went to the door, confused. There was no way Mark was done yet.

I peeked through the sheers to see Mark standing there with something in his hands, a boxy object. I opened the door. "Hey."

"Hey." He was smiling, that slightly patronizing smile I hadn't cared for when we'd first met. He could probably tell how anxious I was around a stranger out here alone. "Found something in that tree over there, thought you might want to see it. It's an old cracker box. An antique."

I relaxed a little, looking more closely at what he was carrying as he held it up. It was an old square tin with a lift-off lid, dark red and navy blue. The front read, SALTED PREMIUM "SODA" CRACKERS MADE IN U.S.A.

"Oh my gosh." I reached for the tin, and he passed it into my hands without hesitation. "This is really cool."

"You might want to look up what it's worth. Some of these go for a hundred, couple hundred bucks. My sister's really into antiques and might be able to tell you more about it."

"Wow. Thank you." I released the door, straightening. If the tin really was worth something, he could easily have tossed it into his truck without giving it to me. I felt bad for being so on edge. "I'm actually going to have some appraisals done of some other stuff in the house soon, so maybe I can get them to look at it all together, but I'll keep that in mind if I run into any snags."

He nodded, glancing past me into the house. "You and your boyfriend planning to sell the place?"

Oh yeah. "We haven't decided quite yet."

"Well, let me know if you're gonna do a yard sale or anything. My sister would definitely be interested in swinging by if there's any antiques on offer." He stuck his hands into his pockets and backed a couple of steps away from the door. "Probably want to wipe that down, but don't use anything abrasive, or you could hurt the value."

"Thank you, Mark." I was quite dirty. Something like cobwebs was knitted across a couple of the bottom corners, and the sides were dotted with dirt and small specks of leaves. Why had it been out in the yard at all, let alone a tree?

As Mark headed back out to his work, I took the cracker tin into the kitchen and found it a temporary home next to the sink. Then I went back into the dining room to resume my inventory of Gran's "filing cabinet."

There were papers related to the house and property, including Gran's home insurance. There was information on her bank accounts and a thick folder, bursting at the seams, that appeared to contain exactly seven years' worth of tax return information. There was information on Gran's Medicare insurance and her Social Security benefits. Once again, I started by making careful notes about every document I found. Later, I could go through the list and determine what to do with each thing, whether we needed to resolve something with a bank or insurance agency or just shred the pages.

"Okay, Porkie," I muttered, sliding the documents back into the box. "Let's see what Master Google suggests we do with all of this stuff."