The midday sun had begun melting its edges, and water dripped steadily onto the marble beneath it.

Arthur wore his only dark wool suit.

It was too heavy for June.

He’d scrubbed his hands before leaving Blue Island, but dark grease remained deep in the lines of his knuckles.

A faded red shop rag protruded from one pocket.

My mother approached him.

“Arthur,” she whispered.

“Put that away.”