Time slowed. And in the few seconds the turn required, I did a flashback to the afternoon’s preparations—Mick delivering the catering truck along with a large-dog-sized crate, me getting dressed in my catering outfit. I’d saved the wig until I got out to the van, which Mick had parked on a side street near my apartment. The catering signs adhered to either side looked authentic enough. I’d peeked under one and learned that the van belonged to the Riverside Players. What Mick’s connection was to an acting troupe, I didn’t want to know. I had both my phones—each set to vibrate—tucked into the pockets of my pants, which helped to add another half size to my frame. The last thing I did before leaving the house was call my mother just to check in on her. She complained about dinner; I promised I would get the letter back for her and said I didn’t know if I could stop by tomorrow, but would call her. The very last thing I did was pick up Bix and give him a big hug. He’s not a cuddly dog—a bit too dignified for that— but he gave me a lick on the cheek as though he understood I was hugging him out of some personal need.
