“Where was I.”

“By the fuel island.

You were on the phone to somebody about a busted trailer light.”

“What did I do.”

And Sheena said: “You looked at it, and you said thanks, and you put it in your shirt pocket.”

I have no memory of it.

I want to be very clear about that, because it is the only defense I have and it is not much of one.

I have gone back over that summer perhaps a hundred times and there is nothing there.

No slip, no yard, no fuel island, no decision.

What there is, is a book.