I sat with my cold tea and listened to his car back out of the driveway.

The unsigned insurance form was in his coat pocket, and the house felt smaller because of it.

At ten the following morning I walked into the bay at the fire station.

Paul Vance was kneeling by the back tire of his ambulance, checking a pressure gauge.

Paul, forty-two, had known Julian since high school.

He stood up and wiped his hands on a rag.

“You look like you spent the night in your car.”