“You know, looking at you yesterday, and thinking about our families,” Harold began slowly. “It makes me think about how small the world is.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“My late wife, Margaret,” Harold said. “She grew up in a very small town upstate. A place called Oakhaven.”

My coffee arrived, the steam rising between us.

I froze, my cup halfway to my lips.

“Oakhaven?” I repeated.

“Yes,” Harold said, nodding. “She lived there until she was eighteen. A tiny farming community.”

I stared at him, the cup trembling slightly in my hand.

“Thomas grew up in Oakhaven,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Harold stopped, his mug suspended in the air.

Before he could speak, the screen of my phone on the table lit up.

It was a text message from David.

I looked down at the glowing screen.

“Where are you?” the message from David read.

“I stopped by the house. Your car isn’t in the driveway.”

I felt a familiar tightening in my chest.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment.

“I am having coffee with a friend,” I typed back.