The land around Walter Briggs’s house was the kind of quiet most people didn’t notice anymore. His small home sat on the edge of the valley, a few miles past the last gas station, where the road narrowed and the sound of traffic disappeared. He’d lived there for twenty years, ever since he and his wife decided they’d had enough of city noise.
Each morning followed the same order: coffee, feeding the koi, checking the fence. He liked the routine. It kept things predictable. After the war, that mattered. He didn’t need surprises; he’d had his share.