At five o’clock, cold water was pouring down the windshield of my Buick LeSabre as I sat parked fifty yards down Birch Street from Frank’s house.

Claire sat beside me in the passenger seat in a blue wool scarf, a plaid thermos in her lap.

She unscrewed the top and poured warm apple cider into two paper cups, filling the damp car with the smell of cinnamon.

On the dashboard over the steering wheel, the little green plastic horse called Greenie was propped against the windshield, its faded painted mane catching the gray afternoon light.

“Arlene phoned me from the clerk’s office,” Claire said quietly.