Harry had visited Sam a few weeks ago.
Harry drove by the city courthouse where he worked, past the post office, and a stretch of local restaurants, to the outskirts of town, where his sleek red Corvette inched along stately homes hidden behind wrought-iron gates.
But suddenly, weakened by sadness, nausea rose in his throat, and he pulled over to the side of the road and killed the ignition. Shaking behind the steering wheel, he glimpsed his friend’s face in his mind. He smiled and tried to gather his wits, inhaling, exhaling. His pulse slowed, his breathing evened out. When he finally composed himself, enough to drive, he pulled himself upright in the driver’s seat, and reached forward to turn the key in the ignition. After looking up into the rearview mirror for any oncoming traffic, h
