Roger Conroy rolled up in his Volvo. Laura was on the swing beneath the dead tree reading a paperback Amish romance where women’s ears were compared to orchids, and people with names like Jebediah and Rebecca snuck away from church just to hold hands. She looked up at him, squinting in the sun. He asked her to go for a drive, and she left her book behind on the scorched lawn. The car smelled of almost sour milk. The leather...
