She stands, trackside, holding his lunchpail. Bright blue dress, matching shoes, red lips, yellow hair, a permanent wave. The diesel rounds the bend same time daily, right after school, halts with that same sudden jerk.

She has her man, a real engineer. He has his girl, waiting for him alone.

Bradley Harris has: one swell girl to come home to, two prize-winning novels, three imaginary dogs, a quadruple bypass, five books to write, six thousand books to read, seven decades of consciousness, eight or nine people who act as if they like him, and ten thousand reasons to be grateful.