Arthur Vance faced serious professional ruin, but I had refused to file punitive personal lawsuits that would leave his innocent family homeless.

Greg was living comfortably in his longtime home again, surrounded by me, Sophie, and Biscuit, managing his health with quiet dignity.

The ceramic salt shaker still sat on the kitchen table beside a warm pot of cinnamon chili as dusk settled softly outside.

“We are staying right here together, Greg,” I said softly into the cool evening air.

Greg reached out his right hand, his fingers steadying as he rested his palm gently against the wooden swing slat between us.

I quietly tucked my arm through his, feeling the steady warmth of his shoulder against mine.

I rested my cheek against Greg’s shoulder on the porch swing under the warm yellow porch light.