Dustin bounced on his heels and watched the massive truck tires roll past him toward the street.

I put my car in park and walked up the sloping concrete driveway to stand next to him.

“You played a perfect fourth quarter,” Dustin said.

“It wasn’t a game,” I said.

Dustin watched the heavy moving van shift into gear and pull out onto the main road.

“Brenda didn’t leave you much room in the back of that truck,” I said.

“She told me to find my own ride to the airport,” Dustin said.