Nora looked across the table at me, her gaze steady.

“Are you going to fight him if he steps onto your grass tomorrow?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m going to finish this without throwing a single punch.”

At two o’clock I crossed the cul-de-sac toward Arthur Peterson’s house with one blue presentation folder in my right hand.

The sun was high and the street was still, apart from the faraway drone of a lawnmower three blocks over.

Arthur’s front curtains shifted as my boots landed on his front walk.