The sun sat low over Lake Anne when I walked down the grassy slope behind the main house at four o’clock.

The cold afternoon light lay across the dark water in long, thin gray lines.

I stepped onto the wooden dock and walked to the end, where Walter’s old unpainted fishing boat was tied under the covered slip.

The green wood of the gunwale was worn smooth where his hands used to rest while he rigged fishing lines.

I reached into my jacket pocket and took out the brass key fob with its stamped metal tag.

The edges of the brass were tarnished from years of lake mist, but the stamped numbers were still sharp and clean.