Sal Puccini cruised down Main Street past the Baseball Hall of Fame and a lifetime of bad memories. Thirty years and nothing had changed—same small-town redbrick buildings, same sheen on the lake, same irritating kid brother . . .
“We are not descended from fearful men,” the box filled with wires and lights says to her as she sits, waiting, on the anniversary. She stares into its eyes. This is the sign . . .