Arthur got up from the bench, his joints cracking faintly under his khakis.

He turned toward the gravel walking path that curved back toward the cul-de-sac.

“I’m trying to save you from a fight you can’t win, David,” he said.

He walked off across the grass, leaving his half-finished paper cup sitting on the green bench behind him.

I stayed on the wooden bench for two minutes, watching the steam curl up off Arthur’s cup into the cool morning air.

A red township maintenance truck slowed along the curb by the park, its driver eyeing me through the open window before he pulled away.