A cold autumn rain had begun to fall, turning the dirt along the edges of the driveway into thick red mud.

Arthur Vance, who’d lived next door since I was six, was standing by his hedge with a yellow plastic rake.

He looked at my civilian sweater, then at my face, and leaned over the low wooden fence.

“Good to have you back, Emily,” Arthur said.

“Though I was surprised to see that truck over here last Tuesday.”

“What truck?” I asked him.

“Big unmarked box truck,” Arthur said, leaning on the handle of his rake.