For reasons I don’t know and that are irrelevant to this story, my husband, Stan, had a meeting with a client at Arnott Milling Company in Arnott. I was waiting in the Suburban, no doubt scanning my iPad, when I was startled by a guy who motioned for me to roll down my window. Arnott seems like a pretty safe and sound place, so I did.
“Did anyone shoot at Indy?” he asked.