“He’ll bring it,” Sarah said.

“He wants your signature more than he wants his next breath.”

She rapped her keys hard against her knee.

“Are you sure about that particular store?” Sarah asked.

“It has to be the one on Highway Nine,” I said.

By ten that morning, Sarah had cleared the pile of old magazines off her coffee table to make room for my canvas overnight bag.

She tossed a folded gray wool sweater into the open duffel.