Daniel stepped in before the ink had dried, pulled the pink customer copy off the clipboard, and folded it into his shirt pocket.

“I’ll file this with the house maintenance receipts,” Daniel said, heading for his car without a backward glance.

The plumber watched Daniel drive off down the street before he turned back to me with the wrench still in his hand.

“He sure keeps a tight hold on the paperwork,” the plumber said quietly.

“That he does,” I said.

I went back into the casita, shut the door against the dust, and looked over the printed transit map I had picked up from the library rack three weeks before.

The bus stop on Shea Boulevard was a twelve-minute walk along the asphalt shoulder, where there weren’t any sidewalks.