I raked the leaves from around the tires of my eleven-year-old Buick.

The car had started hesitating when it shifted gears, and I wondered how I would ever pay to fix it now that Arthur’s investigation was draining my savings.

I gathered a big pile of brown oak leaves by the metal mailbox.

My arms ached from the repetitive motion, a welcome distraction from the thoughts spinning in my head.

A bicycle chain rattled loudly at the far end of the street.

I stopped raking and leaned my weight on the wooden handle.