He picked a red rubber stamp out of his tray, pressed it into the ink pad, and brought it down hard on the cover of Bob’s commercial file.

The red ink said FROZEN.

I left the bank at three and walked three blocks along the street to the hardware store parking lot.

Bob’s sedan sat near the loading dock.

Through the front display window I could see him at the main register, handing a printed receipt to an old farmer in blue overalls.

He looked brisk, cheerful, and without a care in the world.

He jingled his brass key ring between his thumbs while he waited for the cash drawer to slide open.