That was yesterday. Now Cone found himself going 90 miles an hour on the wrong freeway. Or was he? None of the last 15 or so miles had seemed familiar, but it had been six months since Cone had made the drive north, and back then he wasn't really paying too close attention. After all, she had been there with him then, along with a truckload of their belongings, those things that accumulate when you share a life and a home with somebody for any amount of time. And in between the wheels of the Rollerblades, at the tips of the bristles on the toothbrush they'd occasionally share, tucked between the sleeping bag and the boxes of books and CDs, all packed tight in the bed of the truck, was the love that never quite made it into word form quite enough, but so suffused his life that Cone never suspected it would someday be ripped away from him, and that he'd be doing this now, racing back to her, trying to focus with tear-soaked eyes, and losing track of the freeway exits.

Three more miles passed before he saw that, yes, according to the sign above the emergency call box, he was, indeed, on the wrong freeway.

"Shit." He pulled off at the next exit. "Gotta calm down."

No shade anywhere, no trees anywhere, he jumped a curb and stopped at a broken-down gas station. Like the one on "Andy Griffith," but Gomer had gone off to join the Marines and who the hell knew WHERE Goober was, and Barney, who should have been there sucking down a grape soda and polishing his only bullet, had long ago given up Mayberry for the bright lights of apartment building management in Santa Monica. No one was around. Just Cone and the rust on the gas station.

First, a cigarette. No, Cone was not accustomed to smoking anywhere but in a bar or at home when he was a little inebriated, and especially not in shadeless 100-degree heat, but the little man inside needed a nicotine fix. And now the little man ruled. And so, first, the cigarette. Then, staring at the map he'd pulled out of the glovebox, pushing aside the pile of dirty laundry he'd thrown into the cab of the truck, Cone discovered that he'd missed the I-5 exit and instead of heading for San Francisco and uncertain reconciliation with her, he was headed for Fresno.

"Christ, Fresno."

He balled up the map and shoved it under the laundry. He missed the ashtray when he went to snub out that damn cigarette, and a glowing ember of tobacco dropped first onto the ring finger of his right hand, then to the floorboards below when he recoiled from the instantaneous burn. Afraid the laundry, the map and everything else would go up in flames, he unscrewed the lid on the Gatorade bottle that had served as his only nutrition since the day before, and poured what was left of it in the general direction of where the burning cigarette cherry had fallen.