'You promised,' Jo said from the front hall. She held two paper tickets and wore the blue coat she'd picked the night before.
Sam looked at the phone in his hand. His father had called from the old house. A moving truck had arrived early, and the last box was too heavy for one person. The house had to be empty by sunset.
Jo had been waiting all month for the afternoon show. Sam had promised popcorn, a walk by the river, and the best seats he could find. His father had asked for help many times, but this was the first day he had a truck and a clear path out.
'I can take you to the show first,' Sam said. 'Then I can go there.'
Jo shook her head. The show would end before the truck was loaded. Sam's sister lived two hours away. She couldn't reach the house in time.
On the table, Sam set the tickets beside his father's old house key. One object held a promise to a child. The other held a promise that had never been said out loud, but had been there for years.
Jo sat on the bottom step. 'If you leave, I'll know what comes first,' she said.
Sam knew she might mean the show. She might mean the whole family. He also knew his father might remember the day Sam stayed, not the reason he couldn't.
He had taught Jo that a promise was a small bridge between two people. Once you stepped onto it, you had to think before you turned around. But he had also learned from his father that care often arrived without a clean plan.
The tickets were still warm from the shop. The house key was cold from the table. Sam looked from one to the other and heard the truck waiting in the distance.
The car keys rested in Sam's palm. The two addresses waited on the table.