He sat up suddenly, heart racing, and then exhaled, hand on his chest. He lingered a moment, catching his breath, and checked the time on the VCR above his television set: seven fifteen. Sarah should have been here almost two hours ago. He had drifted off waiting for her. He pulled in the chair’s footrest and hobbled to a stand. His blood pressure was better today, but he was feeling the full brunt of last night’s exertions in the muscles of his biceps, calves, and lower back; his hands, which were arthritic, were so stiff he could barely squeeze them closed. He awkwardly patted his thin hair into place and ran both hands over his crumpled shirt, wondering why Sarah would knock now when she hadn’t knocked last night. He’d left the back door unlocked for her, just like he had yesterday. The knock sounded again, and Boss bayed again. “Damn it, Boss, shut up,” Wyatt said. The knocks had been at the front door—that was why they seemed so loud. His sleepy brain stabbed once more at understanding (Did I lock the door after all?
