He pinched his arm. It hurt. He was here, but he was also on the ground. All he knew was that the figure on the ground had been holding a plastic shopping bag.

The logo on the bag was unreadable in the side-scatter of his headlights. A book, initially quite battered, now worse, lay accusingly on the ground where it had fallen from the bag. The incised letters of the cover blurred in his eyes making it hard for him to pick out the title.

He knew he couldn’t be caught here. A horrible meeting with his parole officer had turned into a “night with the boys.” With a strength born of desperation, he stuffed his body into the trunk of his car and tossed the shopping bag and book in his passenger side seat.

Swerving only slightly, with a caution born of incomprehensible terror, he continued his drunken path home.