I looked at my dark reflection in the wet side window of the rear door.

My shoulders were square, my eyes were completely clear, and my briefcase sat safely on the front passenger seat next to my travel coat.

I had enough gas in the tank to cross the California border before five in the morning.

If I turned north toward my Seattle apartment, I would spend the rest of the week answering phone calls at my kitchen table while Arthur demanded that I drive back down and hand over my keys.

If I turned south toward Sacramento, I could park in Monica’s spare driveway before two o’clock the next afternoon.