When Dan pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, he was relieved. Not only had he navigated the roads home loosened up—perhaps dangerously so—with several Mai Tais, he had driven in a relentless downpour typical of Florida summer. Someone, he supposed, had watched over him. Now, he sat in the car for several minutes to slow his accelerated pulse and to let the warm, moist breeze wash over him.
It was late afternoon and his parking spot afforded him a gaze of the complex he and Mark had shared since they moved down to Florida. It was so different from what the two of them had left behind in Chicago. Their Windy City home, a graystone two-flat, sat on a crowded street on the north side of the city, close to the “friendly confines” of Wrigley Field, and always, always, within earshot
