The windows were heavily tinted, reflecting the pale yellow of the streetlamp that had just flickered on.
I took two steps toward the porch railing, my eyes fixed on the driver’s side, but the glass remained dark.
As soon as my foot touched the top step, the car surged forward, its tires crunching softly on the loose stone before it reached the main road.
The red taillights of the blue sedan disappeared into the gray Indiana dusk, leaving me with a chill that the spring air could not explain.
The morning after the blue sedan lingered at the end of Maple Street, I woke before the sun had fully cleared the treeline. My routine was my anchor, and by eight o’clock, I had already cleared the breakfast dishes, wiped down the oilcloth on the kitchen table, and swept the floor.
The county veterans service office was located on the second floor of the municipal building downtown, just past the probate court registry. The air in the corridor was heavy with the smell of wet coats and floor wax, a combination I had known for forty years during my time as a town librarian.
