He reached into the inner pocket of his light canvas jacket and took out the crisp paper sleeve holding the title certificate.

He passed it over with a curt, dismissive tilt of his head.

“Here, take it,” Daniel said.

“If you break down on the highway to Tucson, don’t call Renee at the hospital.

She’s working twelve-hour shifts all weekend.”

“I won’t be calling Renee,” I said.

“Where exactly do you think you’ll go tonight?” Daniel asked.

“The cheap motels by the airport won’t take cash without two forms of state ID.”