Jonah didn't try to get close to either of them. He slipped into the very last row near the exit, sat with his hands folded and his eyes down through most of the service, the same posture he'd had every Saturday on that porch, careful not to take up more space than he thought he'd earned.
I sat beside him and watched the front row instead, watched Preston's jaw working like he was holding something back, watched Diane dab at her eyes with a tissue that had clearly given up an hour earlier.
When the service ended and people started rising from their seats, murmuring the low, careful conversation of a room easing itself back into motion, a man in a dark gray suit stepped out from near the front and began walking straight down the center aisle.
He walked past Preston. Past Diane. Past a dozen relatives and old coworkers of Arthur's I didn't recognize.
