He had done it four times.

Eli stood at the rear door with his tablet under one arm, tapping his left foot on the asphalt in a rhythm nobody else could hear.

“The heater makes that noise because it’s cold,” Eli said.

“It’s the blower motor.

Nothing’s broken.”

“Something’s broken when it’s ten degrees.”

Arthur crossed the lot with a folder under his arm, polishing his wire-rimmed glasses on the hem of his coat.

He put them on, counted the four of them twice, and took a folded sheet from his pocket.