We waltzed right in, me slightly in front, found ourselves in a darkened kitchen, a fridge humming away against the far wall, baloney and cheddar cheese inside it. I made another one of those mental notes—hey! I was starting to get it!—and headed for a narrow and dimly lit hall. Somewhere in the front of the house, a door slammed. The next moment we were both running. We charged down the hall and into a front room lit by a lamp with a naked bulb. What else? Two open beer bottles, not empty; two pizza boxes, also not empty, neither pizza including pepperoni, which made no sense to me; a TV on the wall, the biggest thing in the room by far, football on the screen, sound off. In short, a homey little scene, missing only the people. Vroom vroom. A motorcycle engine started up. Of course! Dee’s motorcycle in the front yard! I was fitting the pieces together like never before. Bernie threw open the door and we burst outside. And what a lot we had to take in, with not much time for doing it.
