At 5:02 a.m., my reclusive neighbor hammered on my door and whispered, “Don’t go to work today—by noon, you’ll understand,” then vanished like he’d just broken every rule keeping me alive

have done. He was sixty-four years old, healthy enough to still mow his own lawn, stubborn enough to refuse low-sodium soup, and careful in the way of men who had spent their whole lives balancing accounts and carrying secrets they pretended were ordinary responsibilities.