The park on Elm Street had only one other bench taken, by a man reading a newspaper.

Brandon sat on the bench nearest the playground, the bank statement spread open on his lap.

A little boy was racing toward the swings, his mother calling after him to slow down.

Brandon watched the two of them for a moment.

Then he looked back down at the paper.

His phone buzzed.

It was a text from Patricia: “Dinner at six.

I made pot roast.”