I carried two paper bags of fresh produce to the trunk and set them on the rusted rear bumper.

Julian was standing by the driver’s door when I turned around.

He was leaning over the windshield, looking closely at the plastic trim near the inspection sticker.

He didn’t have his topcoat on, just his tailored charcoal suit and the heavy silver band of his watch, which he twisted around his wrist as I walked toward him.

“You were supposed to be at the pharmacy on Fifth Street,” Julian said.

“The prescription wasn’t ready,” I said, lifting the grocery bags into the trunk.