Emily had gone in to call a teammate from her high school track team about tomorrow’s practice times.

Soft dress shoes tapped along the concrete sidewalk.

Arthur Peterson came up the stone path and stopped at the bottom wooden step.

His silver-framed glasses sat crooked on his nose, and his eyes were red around the edges.

He was holding a long white business envelope in his right hand.

“I typed this up an hour ago on my dining room computer,” Arthur said.

His voice was hardly louder than the autumn breeze in the maples.