Saturday.

I looked at the ice cup in my hand.

Nineteen years of Saturday mornings with my coffee and the paper and the numbers, and this week I had filled out the ticket Friday morning and never looked at the paper again.

It was still out in the driveway, for all I knew, getting rained on.

“Patricia.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re a million miles away.” She reached over and put her hand on my arm.

“Sit down.”