The man was broad-shouldered, with wisps of curly salt-and-pepper hair escaping from the edges of a baseball cap. The woman was hunched, her hands in the pockets of a cardigan sweater, even though it was warm outside. They looked old, even from behind.

“I just need you to reinforce a few rules with my wife.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” the woman yelled. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Salt and Pepper Man flinched as the woman raised her right hand to smack him. With a clear look at their faces, Ellie recognized the couple. For the seven years that Ellie had lived alone in a sublet near the precinct, Hank and Edna had lived in the complex next door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Rogan said. He was dressed impeccably as usual—Canali or Zegna, most likely, more Wall Street than police station. “You can’t be laying hands on each other. We’ve got mandatory arrest for domestic violence in New York. Every one of us in here is obligated to hook you both up if you start getting physical.”

As Ellie quickened her pace in their direction, Hank removed his cap and smoothed his hair, expressing his gratitude at the sight of a familiar face.

The first time Hank spoke to Ellie at the coffee shop around the corner, his wife had apologized, explaining that her husband was “a born flirt.” Ellie had assured her that he’d said nothing to offend. “Maybe not aloud,” Edna had said, “but I can read the man’s mind, and trust me—you don’t want to know. I suppose I should be flattered, though. I used to look a lot like you in my day.”

“Don’t scare the nice woman,” Hank had joked, and they had both laughed, pleased with their comedic timing.

That was probably six years before, and over time, Ellie had noticed the changes. Hank’s ears and nose grew bigger. Edna had shrunk. But age was not imposing on them equally. Hank had slowed physically, grimacing noticeably when he sat and rose from his favorite corner table at the coffee shop. Still, he remained a constant flirt and a fierce intellect, reading both the Times and the Wall Street Journal every morning, leading the discussion group among any of the regulars interested in chiming in. It was clear even to Ellie, a casual neighbor, that Edna’s mind wasn’t faring as well.

“Edna,” she asked, “what did Hank do this time? Together we’ll set him straight.”

The older woman’s face brightened momentarily, but she quickly grew confused.

“You remember Ellie, don’t you?” Hank’s voice had changed, as if he were talking to a child. “The detective. She’s from Kansas. You call her Dorothy.”