For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke
The afternoon shadows were stretching across the dry grass toward the edge of the sidewalk.
I parked my Buick at the end of the Elm Street driveway right at three-thirty.
The house was painted light gray with clean white trim.
Mark stood near the back of his late-model black sedan.
The trunk lid was wide open.
He lifted a large leather golf bag and pushed it deep into the trunk.
The metal irons clanked together.
I walked Emma up the concrete path toward the front porch.
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