He had met her in 1941, in Springfield, Missouri, when he was twenty-four and still believed life would start moving the moment he pressed the gas hard enough. He was working at a garage then. He always had grease under his nails, cheap aftershave on his neck, and a sense that the world was a little smaller than he wanted it to be. Evelyn worked in a fabric store. She had come to pick up her aunt’s car. She was wearing a white summer dress with little blue flowers and holding her handbag as if she did not want to stain it on the grime of that garage.