Rationally she knew a cold front must have hit a warm front. But the gray cloud clinging to the ground was creepy all the same. There would be many crashes on the roads tonight. Bad things would happen for sure. She shivered at the thought.

A chain leash chinked ahead of her as a man curbed his big furry creature. "Good girl," he said as the mastiff peed a noisy lake into the gutter.

A car's ghostly headlights moved slowly down the narrow side street toward Washington Square. No sign of Bernardino. She turned toward the square. Behind her, a young man and woman walked slowly arm in arm. Ahead she could just make out another figure, no, two figures. She frowned. No, it was one figure bent over. Her heartbeat spiked with the strong feeling that someone was sick. Maybe it was Bernie and he'd had way too much to drink. Hard to believe, but possible.

She was wearing the kind of shoes that defied haste, fashionable slides with really thin heels and no backs that made her mince along like one of those women who never had to walk very far. As she moved toward him, the blurry figure straightened up, glanced her way, then walked in the other direction toward Washington Square.

"Bernie?"

She hurried after him, her eyes pointed ahead, not down. She bumped into the thick bundle on the sidewalk. Her foot struck it; then she looked down and saw the leather sleeve with the hand at the end.

Air sucked into her mouth with a hiss as she dropped the retirement gifts and went to her knees.

"Bernie! Oh, no!" She knew instantly that it was him. She recognized the old jacket he'd worn for years. She knew the hand, and she knew by the way he was lying there, his face pointing over his shoulder, that no natural disaster had occurred. He wasn't drunk. He hadn't had a heart attack. His neck was broken. Her old boss, her rabbi, her friend was gone, and there wasn't a thing she could do for him.