Chapter 7One evening in the spring of 1927, John Smith came home late. The scent of budding flowers mingled and hung in the warm, humid air; crickets buzzed in the shadows; in the distance, a lone car kicked up dust and sent a loud, defiant clatter into the stillness. He walked slowly, caught in the drowsiness of a new season, amused by the tiny green buds glowing in the shadows of bushes and trees.
As he entered the house, Sharon was standing at the other end of the living room, holding the phone to her ear and looking at him.
"You're late," she said.
"Yes," he said kindly. "We had an oral examination."
She handed him the phone. "It's for you, long-distance. Someone's been trying to reach you all afternoon.
John picked up the phone and spoke into the mouthpiece. Nobody answered. "Hel
