“How’s things?” she said, dropping a recycling box full of newspapers by the edge of the street. She looked smart, even in a pair of ratty jeans and sweatshirt. Trixie’s a good-looking woman, late thirties, petite, with dark hair and green eyes, and the first time we introduced ourselves I commented that I couldn’t recall hearing the name Trixie since The Honeymooners. It conveyed to me a kind of wholesomeness from another era.

We got talking one day about what we each did for a living, and she asked whether I was taking advantage of all the possible tax deductions for a person who works from home. She gave me a couple of useful, and free, tips. As someone who ran a business from home herself, she seemed to know all the angles.

This day, when she asked me how things were, I guess I didn’t respond positively enough. I merely shrugged, so she strolled over. “What’s up?”

“I’m sort of in the doghouse,” I said. “Sarah’s barely talking to me. It’s been a day and a half now.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“You feel like a coffee?” I asked. “I was just getting ready to work and put on a pot. Unless you’re busy.”

Trixie glanced at her watch. “My first client isn’t coming by till after lunch, which still gives me time to get into my workin’ clothes, so sure, why not.”

While I got out cups for the coffee I told her about hiding Sarah’s car, and how things had unraveled from there. Trixie didn’t express any real shock. She wasn’t a judgmental person. She was open-minded on social issues and tolerant of human frailties. Over earlier cups of coffee, she’d advocated same-sex marriages, defended Bill Clinton’s personal behavior, refused to demonize welfare recipients. And she called things as she saw them.

“God, Zack,” she said, shaking her head and reaching for one of the Peek Freans cookies I’d set out on a plate. Sarah’d taught me never to serve right out of the bag. “You’re a piece of work. And a control freak. Where do you get off, trying to control everyone else’s behavior?”

“Sarah called me an asshole.”

Trixie nodded. “Big surprise there.” She had a bite of a jelly cream. “What do the kids think when you pull a stunt like that?”

That’s when I told her about how both of them had suggested that this was a sequel to The Backpack Incident. That was when Trixie asked her question.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” I said. “It’s like a sickness with me or something, that I have to take desperate measures to make my point. Usually matters related to personal safety and security. That’s the whole reason why I hid Sarah’s car. Not to make a fool of her, but to teach—”