Elden sat on the veranda while sun setting behind the 18th tee box. It had been a good round. Perhaps his best.
The sudden knowledge that his life lacked a certain narrative coherence took his breath like a punch to the stomach. He was the product of a life lived off the cuff, more a shotgun spread than a .45's clean hole in a distant target.
"I have issues," he said in a voice louder than he expected. The elderly couple nursing wine at the table next to him looked briefly and then turned away.