“Without money or high-level legal discovery, we’re fighting a forest fire with a cup of water,” Arthur said gently.

The sun was dipping below the tree line when I parked my Buick two blocks from the marital house, under the long shadow of an old oak.

The autumn air in the car had turned crisp and cold.

I sat in the driver’s seat and dumped everything in my vinyl handbag onto the passenger cushion.

A key ring holding three keys.

A dried-out lip balm.