Arthur was halfway down the driveway, heading for the silver sedan parked at the curb.

“Arthur. Hold on.”

He turned without loosening his grip on the ledger.

“My wife needs peace right now.

Give her some space.”

He looked at my ten-year-old car, its faded bumper and ordinary state plates.

“Your husband cannot protect you from real-world problems, Clara,” he called toward the front window.

Then he smiled at me.