Sarah came up the driveway at eight forty the following morning with a bakery box balanced on one arm and a manila envelope pinned under her chin.

Sarah, twenty-eight, my assistant, with the leather tote that could fit a small appliance.

“Grab the box,” she said.

“My arms are giving out.”

Almond pastries, still warm, from the bakery on Scottsdale Road.

She’d bought four, which was two more than any two people needed.

“Where’d you park?”

“Right behind you.