I rent the car from Enterprise, a ridiculous sedan that smells like fake cherries. It has a radio with jazz presets, and five wheels you forget the moment you park. Then you spend time the next morning in the hotel parking lot, comparing license plate numbers to the one on your key chain, one at a time: salesman’s haiku. All those matching cars in colors that look like smoke, and somehow I am the only one not sure which vehicle I need. And not sure if it matters, either, what with all these matching cars.

That I have time to see him is even more denial. The idea is to drive two hours down and two hours back, spend an hour in his study, sorting through it all. I even let myself think that we would have time for coffee. He would grind beans suited to the day. He would serve milk, sugar and bon bons, in coordinated dispensers.

I could have said before, but the reason I do not like traveling is because I am not good at it. I miss the I-16 east merger, and stay on 475 south, adding fifteen minutes to my drive.