“Listen,” she said. “The panic comes and goes. I drove with Lili the other day and it was kind of OK. I can do this.”

“I know,” he said, opening the truck door.

“Or at least,” she said, opening hers, “I can try.”

They got in and Bob started the truck. He turned to her and smiled. “Patrick Ewing or Carmelo Anthony?”

Laura stared at him. “Why are you even asking that question? Sure, Carmelo Anthony was great, no question, but Patrick Ewing was a god.”

“OK, but neither of them approach LeBron, let’s be clear.”

It turned out that arguing about basketball was almost as effective an antianxiety treatment as alcohol and donuts, and the debate carried them all the way through the drive, the pizza, and the ice cream.

•   •   •

As they sat on a bench outside the ice cream place a little while later, Bob turned to Laura and said, “Have you actually driven since the accident?”

“You mean behind the wheel?” She shook her head. “I used to like driving, even though as a Manhattanite I didn’t do it very often. It’s a bummer. I mean, the whole thing is far more than a bummer, but I dream of driving sometimes, not nightmares.”

They ate their ice cream in silence for a while, then she took a deep breath and said, “I’d like to try it sometime, but the traffic . . . there are so many other people I could hurt, or who could hurt me.” She looked at Bob and her eyes were bright and clear. “People sometimes comment on my limp, you know, but they have no idea what a triumph it actually is. The doctors thought I was never going to walk again, and I was really scared.”

He popped the last of his waffle cone in his mouth and nodded. “I would have been, too, honestly, who wouldn’t be?” He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up. “Do you trust me?”

She looked up at him and frowned. “Uh . . . yes, strangely.”

“Come on then,” he said, holding out his hand. “I have an idea.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

I’ve never driven a truck before,” Laura said as she stood irresolutely in the dark. Then she added, “And I’ve never been to Dodger Stadium, either.”

The parking lot at Dodger Stadium can hold sixteen thousand cars, but that evening it was largely empty. It turned out Bob knew several members of the grounds team there, and a friend of his had met them at a side gate and let them drive in.

“You guys still here?” Bob had asked, and the guy had nodded.

“When they’re not at home, we have to make the most of it, repairing the turf,” he replied, and looked at his watch. “We’ll be closing up at eleven. You’re good for now.” He’d shot Laura a friendly look and Bob a quick glance. “Have fun.”