He wore his old brown work jacket, but his shoulders sloped forward in a heavy way I had never seen in our twenty-two years together.

I opened my car door and stepped out onto the damp pavement, holding the folded library printout in my hand.

“Arthur defaulted on the commercial line of credit, Greg,” I said as I reached the sidewalk.

Greg stopped two feet from the green plastic dumpster, his fingers tightening around the knot of the trash bag.

“You shouldn’t be down here, Claire,” he said.

His voice was completely flat, carrying no more feeling than an automated recording.