Barry died of a brain aneurysm in the garage on a Tuesday afternoon in October. He'd just finished a sixty-two-mile cycling ride, pulled in, and collapsed reaching up to hang his bike on the wall mount. Sara found him four hours later, still in his cycling shoes.

She sealed the garage. Parked in the driveway for two years. Through snow, through ice, scraping her windshield at six in the morning rather than open that door.

Twenty-three years of marriage. She wasn't ready to open anything.

Then the sprinklers went off.

A construction site, no rain in weeks, no malfunction on record. The system soaked Sara and a steel fabricator named David Sterling, a blunt widower from Pittsburgh whose wife Jennifer had died in a car accident eight years prior. They ducked into a coffee shop and talked for three hours.

Two weeks later ...