She left a little after six, because her reservation was at seven thirty and she hadn’t bought a single item on her grocery list, and she was not going to turn fifty-eight without a steak.

“You call me tomorrow,” she said through the window.

“Not Sunday night.

Tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“And if you get spooked in the night, call Marcus, not me.

He’s faster.”

I told her two deadbolts were enough for one day.