At ten to three we pulled into the parking lot of the Highway Nine discount store.

The lot was full of salt-crusted sedans, dented minivans and rusty work trucks.

Sarah parked three rows back from the building and turned the Buick to face the sliding glass doors.

“There’s his car,” Sarah said, pointing over the top of the steering wheel.

David’s dark charcoal sedan was parked crooked across two spaces next to the blue accessible parking lane.

He was sitting in the front seat with the engine running, his eyes locked on the entrance.