potato head I had to stop there, because at 9 p.m. sharp I was to meet Miles in the parking lot of Dykes Lumber on Route 17. Actually, I was a little early. The asphalt shone darkly under a patina of oil, transmission fluid, and rain. Even at this hour, the passing of truck traffic beat the air like huge wings, and did some kind of synesthestic boogie in my head so that I swore I could hear the susurrus of tires on wet pavement even though I had my walkman playing Air Supply at Volume 8. I was doing this to drown out my fear and it wasn't working. Miles loves to take charge of a situation: that's why he's a Dungeonmaster and not a player. On his precise instructions, I had brought a small flashlight, some blank cassettes and a steno notebook. Thank God I took shorthand in high school. I knew that Gloria hid the keys to the filing cabinet under the African violet on her desk, so I had no problem there. A shadow moved in the corner of my eye and I startled like a cat.
