“I think,” she said distractedly, “that it’s ‘twitch left whiskers thrice, scratch right ear with hind foot, flick tail and squeak twice in C flat.’ But it’s been a while…that might mean his grandmother mated with cats, for all I know.”

I considered. “I’m right out of whiskers, having shaved this morning. And in this ‘hanging by my seat belt’ state, I don’t think either foot is getting anywhere near either ear.”

“No,” she said, in a musing tone. “That, and you couldn’t hit C with a ball-peen hammer. Maybe you should just pull the trunk release?”

Always thinking, she is.

“I knew there was a reason why I married you.” She grinned at me. I yanked the lever, dropping a cascade of shelled pecans onto the tarmac. The squirrel leaned around to look, and chittered.

“He says he wants whole English walnuts,” she translated.

Abruptly, the small voice in the back of my head, tired of tapping discreetly on the mental windowpane, smashed it out with a brick with a note tied round it.

“Wait…you understand that?”