He slowly knelt down in the long grasses of the back meadow. He had to move slowly since his old knees would not tolerate random, thoughtless movement. For a moment he contemplated falling forward, spreading himself full length, arms outstretched onto the sun-warmed ground, but it was far enough into summer that he’d probably be inviting several crawling things into the folds of his clothing. He berated himself inwardly. Why did he even worry about such things anymore? Frannie was dead; he was a widower, a leftover, half of a whole, a lost soul who had never quite learned to fill a day by himself once he’d retired. Where had he put his shotgun? Maybe it was time to end it all. Why not?
Something crinkled in the pocket of his baggy jeans. A piece of paper. He pulled it out.