The number was written on a piece of paper torn from the back of an envelope. His sister Doris had given it to him three days earlier, as if she were handing him a recipe or the name of a plumber.

“I don’t know if it’s still right,” she had said. “An old friend of Margaret’s found it. Just don’t do anything foolish.”

He had laughed then.

“At sixty-six, foolishness at least has the decency to arrive late.”