Caleb woke at oh-six-forty-seven.
He had slept on a couch that was older than he was, in a living room that had not been redecorated since before his father had disappeared. The cushions had the firm-then-soft give of old foam. The throw blanket Iris had pulled over him at oh-two-fourteen smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. He had not asked her about the pipe tobacco. He could guess.
The kettle was empty on the kitchen table where his father had left it.
The fourth folder sat beside the kettle.
It was a plain brown manila folder. Three centimeters thick. Closed with a rubber band, not a clasp. Marcus had not opened it before he left. He had taken his cup with him, washed it in the sink, and dried it on the dish towel, and Caleb had heard the soft clink of the cup on the drying rack while he was supposed to be staring at the kettle.
Iris was at the kitchen window with a mug of coffee.
