Pops, eyes glazed, makes his way past the glass door and into the garden. Four other men, also dressed in clerk uniforms shadow him. 

Blinded by the glaring sun, they shield their eyes from their hands, and I might just be an illusion. The angel that pours down the fountain’s water is now my shield. If the four men spot me, they might assume that I got lost delivering oranges. 

“You brought it?” demands a stern voice. 

Pops takes out a ...