Warren Palmer was not a man who liked attention.

He was sixty-seven, retired from a career repairing refrigeration equipment, and preferred his vegetable garden to company.

When I went to thank him, he kept his gaze on the soil beside his feet.

“I should’ve come over sooner,” he said.

“You did something.

You saved the recording.”

He nodded toward the fence.

“I’ve heard her scold Hailey before.