And the chips were definitely down. They sent me home on Friday morning with three bottles of pills and a list of "thou shall nots" that would have made a Jesuit blush. Near as I could tell, for the next week or so, my activities were limited to low-impact needlepoint and the contemplation of my navel. At least, that's what I promised. I lasted for about forty-five minutes after Rebecca went to work. Then I made the mistake of plugging the phone back in. Wedged in among the interview requests and sales pitches was a message from Bobby Alston, my mechanic down at Mario's Foreign Auto Repair. According to Bobby, they'd dried the Fiat out as best they could but needed the keys so they could see if it would start. I mean, what was I gonna do? Leave my car down there with strangers? Dr. Fitzroy had called also. It took him a full five minutes to hem and haw his way to saying that he thought he had the information I had requested . . . documentation suggests . . . only preliminary . . . future research might well reveal .
