“I always am.”

He turned back to the director.

I walked out to the lot with my keys already in hand and didn’t look up at the third-floor windows.

The maple had shed most of its leaves.

I sat in the driver’s seat with the heat off and took the certificate folder out of my bag.

There it was, on the bottom line, dated April second, 1982.

Charles Wilson, in blue ink, with a small, steady loop on the W.