sir?" "If you've got a lug wrench, I could tighten that wheel myself." "Oh, why ... Is a lug wrench like a ordinary wrench?" "You probably have one in your trunk," Ira told him, "where you keep your jack." "Oh! But where do I keep my jack, I wonder," Mr. Otis said. "In your trunk," Ira repeated doggedly, and he reached inside the car for the keys and handed them over. He was keeping his face as impassive as possible, but inwardly he felt the way he felt anytime he stopped by Maggie's nursing home: utterly despairing. He couldn't see how this Mr. Otis fellow made it from day to day, bumbling along as he did. "Lug wrench, lug wrench," Mr. Otis was murmuring. He unlocked the trunk and flung the lid up. "Now let me just . . ." At first glance, the trunk's interior seemed a solid block of fabric. Blankets, clothes, and pillows had been packed inside so tightly that they had congealed together. "Oh, me," Mr. Otis said, and he plucked at a corner of a graying quilt, which didn't budge. "Never mind," Ira told him.
