Hard to get down to business on a day like that. What is it about a foggy morning? It’s almost like a new-fallen snow, but better still: Just walking through the snow leaves a mark, spoils the curve, but the fog heals itself, swirls right in behind you as if you’d never been. That and a sense of short-sighted clarity, surrounded by a huge potential for mystery and wonder. Five feet ahead could be a black sedan waiting at the curb, or a grim-faced cop, or a lurking, silent stranger, or (and yes, I admit this one’s usually the most likely) my own front gate, dripping with dew.

Just the sort of morning that would be perfect for disappearance, walking off into familiar ways and never being seen again. And, as I learned from a distraught Mrs. Otis in my office three days later, that’s exactly what her husband Clarence appeared to have done.

“Mr. Street,” she begged me, “you have to help me find him. He just went out to pick up the paper. He didn’t even have his shoes on. I can’t sleep. I’m just sick with worry.”