The bench was damp. The lamp buzzed. A raccoon made a sound that could have been laughter if you were feeling unkind. He waited, counted in eights like his mother taught him to do on long drives.
Another car pulled up, idled, left. A jogger passed and doubled back when he saw Matt’s face, then thought better of it.
At 4:41 a.m., a message: Check your email. He opened his inbox and found a single draft saved by someone signed in as… Sarah?
