The back tires squealed on the slick concrete, and the old Buick shot out into the cold dusk before the metal garage door reached the top of its tracks.

In the side mirror I saw David standing on the concrete apron of the driveway, holding the mortgage paper up high while the chilly evening wind whipped his dark hair across his face.

I drove six miles south without looking at the gas gauge or the dashboard clock.

I knocked twice on the dark wooden frame of Sarah’s door on the second floor of the old brick three-flat.

She opened the door before my hand had even left the frame.