“We’re not moving,” I said.

We ate dinner in total silence while the sun sank behind the trees along the property line.

The kitchen went gray, but neither of us got up to turn on the overhead light.

At seven thirty the low chug of a gas engine came down the street.

Harry’s custom golf cart idled along the curb, its thick exhaust smell drifting through the screen door into our living room.

The engine cut off right at the foot of my driveway.