“There’s nothing on this scrap that concerns you, Mara,” he said, shoving his fist into his trouser pocket.

By half past five the drizzle had become a steady cold rain.

I sat behind the wheel of my 2004 Buick LeSabre in the hospice parking lot, waiting for the defroster to clear the fogged windshield.

The dashboard rattled at its usual low pitch while the temperature gauge stayed down by the cold mark.

A flashlight beam swept across my side mirror, and Nurse Sarah rapped her knuckles on the driver’s-side window.

I lowered the glass two inches.