Summary: One Tuesday in February a man came out from behind the church and ran at my wife on her morning walk. Nothing happened. She got home. Then she stopped walking for two weeks, and I went looking for something that wasn't going to end up in a drawer like everything else I'd bought her.
Her name is Carol. She's sixty one, and she's walked the same two miles at six in the morning for nine years. Out the door, left at the stop sign, past the church, around the pond, home by seven with the paper.
I've never once walked it with her. I'm asleep. That's the honest version.
That morning she had a whistle on a string around her neck, her phone in an armband under her sleeve, and her keys in her coat pocket. She had nothing in her hand.
Here's what I bought instead, and the seven reasons it was this one.