I’d kept a half-acre and given the rest to Dr. Francis and Estelle Guzman. It had been a good move. The Medical/Dental Clinic built there had prospered, and I took a quiet pleasure out of occasionally cruising the spacious parking lot and seeing all the license plates from Chihuahua and other points south. The attached pharmacy was still open, with two or three cars parked in front. Out of old habit, I looped through the parking lot, glancing at license plates. There had been a time when I might run them through dispatch. I returned to my own driveway. I damn near fell asleep waiting for my garage door to open, and when it scrolled shut behind me with a gentle thud, the thought occurred to me that I could just slump in my car seat and snooze without all the hassle of dismounting. “Come on,” I said aloud. Supporting myself against the wall, avoiding a rack of long-abandoned paint cans, I reached the interior door that took me into the small utility room.
