Arthur didn't respond. He walked. Every step toward the ball felt like wading through deep water. He reached his lie. 145 yards out. An 8-iron.

Arthur stepped up. The silence of the course was absolute, save for the rhythmic thwack of a distant mower. He didn't see the trees or the sand. He saw the line. A tiny, invisible wire stretching 240 yards out.

Arthur’s glove was a second skin, slick with the kind of sweat that doesn’t come from the sun. He looked at the digital display on the cart:

To "break 80"—the holy grail of the weekend warrior—he needed a four. A five would leave him at 80, the cruelest number in golf. A six? He didn’t want to think about the six.