“I don’t know where they get off, charging that much for romaine. Do they think that people don’t shop around, that we don’t know that if we go down the street a ways we can get it for less? Maybe it’s a convenience thing. They figure people don’t mind paying more for something if it means they don’t have to bother to go someplace else. But if you’re getting several things, and you can save money on all of them, it just makes sense to go someplace else. Anyway, General has a pretty good butcher’s counter, so we can get steaks there every bit as good as Mindy’s.” There was a long pause. “Are you not talking to me, or what?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you.”

“Tell me again what you got done on your book today.”

“Oh, some last-minute editing stuff. Finishing the last chapter. I’ll probably send it to Tom by the end of next week.”

“Are you happy with it?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah, sure, I guess. I don’t know. Probably not.” I glanced over at Sarah in time to see her shake her head and smile.

“You’re always like this when you finish a book,” she said. “You read through it and think it’s the worst thing anybody’s ever written.”

“Even I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You know what I mean. You’re your own worst critic. Is that what’s got you? Letdown?”

“I never said I was down.”

“You just seem a bit off, that’s all I’m saying.”

I didn’t say anything. I had a lot on my mind. Jail, for example. As we drove to General Mart, I found myself looking in the rear-view mirror more than I usually do. I figured someone would be after me. Someone should be after me.

I had, after all, stolen something. But I was not, I told myself, a purse snatcher. Not technically. A purse snatcher was someone who ripped handbags from the clutches of their owners, usually little old ladies who didn’t have the strength to hang on to them and who got knocked down in the process, suffering a broken hip. I had broken no little old hips.

I drove for a while without saying anything, then: “You’re sure you didn’t bring your purse?”

“Huh?”

“Your purse. You’re sure you didn’t bring it along, out of habit, even though you’re wearing that thing on your waist?”

“A fanny pack.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s called a fanny pack.”

I glanced down at her lap. “That doesn’t make any sense at all. It doesn’t hang over your fanny. It hangs over your, well, it hangs over your front. Maybe they thought ‘crotch pack’ didn’t have as nice a ring to it.”