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two.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll keep in touch.”
    “In touch?” His eyes shifted to his palm. “That might not be the best idea.” With overwrought focus, he turned and worked his way up the steps into the house.

    Summer’s Prelude carried her back down the hill. Vying for her attention, the look in Clay’s eyes continued to trouble her. He’d been unquestionably shaken.
    She sighed.
Oh, what might’ve been
.
    Her red car sped through the curves until the road broadened once moreonto the flatlands. She refused to live her life victimized by fear. Her sister, Milly, had died in an auto collision, and Summer often found herself tempting fate.
    Before her, night clouds stretched over the smattering of town lights, and she wondered what Mylisha was up to. Nothing much, probably. What made her friend tick? Would she be ready to carry the weight of a secret or two?
    Summer knew she’d been hard on Mylisha earlier. A peace offering was in order, an apology card.
    After a detour into a corner market, Summer headed for her friend’s apartment on the south end of town. A semitruck rumbled by. A sports car wearing a coat of gray primer purred alongside, long enough for the driver to try to catch her eye.
    Get a clue, jerk!
    On Maple Street she edged to the curb. Pushing ten o’clock already. Was it too late for Mylisha? Hard to tell anymore.
    Summer’s left hand opened the car door, and her right clutched for—
    “Omigosh!”
    On the sidewalk a man was facing her with a lewd fire in his eyes.
    She thought of slamming the door and hitting the locks, imagined peeling away. Then, thinking of Mylisha alone in the apartments behind this stranger, she chose to face him. She would put on her game face. As if to confirm her decision, a cone of light washed over the man’s form and revealed ugly tan pants and an argyle vest.
    So much for his cloak of intimidation.
Hellooo? What a loser!
    Now he was wearing a secretive grin, and she flung the door wide, rising to meet this challenge.
    “Listen, buddy, what’s
your
problem?”
    Screeching rubber and a revved motor were all she knew of the vehicle that caught her from behind. She felt something snap as her arms were thrust over the door. With disembodied, fading vision, she rode the torn metal panel through the air, her head careening toward a picket fence in the yard that became her resting place.

4
The Envelope
    Despite disquieting memories and a boozy heaviness slogging through his head, Clay woke early. The noise of a lawn mower grew louder outside his window. His father, no doubt:
Up and at ’em. No sleeping in around here, Son
.
    Mumbling, Clay found his way to the bathroom.
    Splash of water. Excedrin. A towel to dry off his face.
    Funny thing. Last night the alcohol had helped him forget, whereas here in the piercing light of morning it only deepened his gloom. Back in Cheyenne, as a concession to Jenni, he had once upon a time attended an AA meeting. Some in the room had been a mess. Screwed up in a big way. He knew he was different, though. He didn’t drink all that often; he just used an occasional buzz to take off the edge.
    And to forget. Mostly to forget.
    He combed a hand through his short brown hair. Even his scalp felt bruised.
    This time he ran both hands over his head, facing his discomfort head-on. This was a new day, a fresh set of circumstances. Time to get on with life.
    Of course, a job and a paycheck would help in a big way.
    In socks and boxers, he fetched the
Register-Guard
from the paper box on the porch and spread it on the table tucked into the dining nook. As coffee percolated, he ran a finger down the classified columns.
    Déjà vu. At this same table, scanning the same subscription who knew how many years ago, he’d sought out his first real job. He’d landed three summers’ worth of work with the Junction City Parks Department and climbed his way to crew supervisor.
    Yep, I was a working machine
.
    With his mom’s Avon scented pen, he began