My old Buick caught on the second try.

I put it in gear and drove out of the parking lot, leaving the black trash bag sitting right where I’d dropped it.

I parked in my own drive and went into the quiet house.

The kitchen clock said three in the afternoon.

I sat at the little table and pulled the phone across the linoleum.

The coiled cord stretched tight over the edge.

I had the Tyler area code written on the back of a voided gas station register receipt.