THE KID’S NAME WAS Randy. His uncle owned the service station, and he was teaching his nephew how to be a mechanic.

“I finished high school, so it’s not like I can fool around. My dad’s a plumber, but I like cars.”

“You got a car?”

“Not yet,” said Randy. “But I got my eye on a ’56 Bel Air.”

I opened the trunk. The spare tire was off to the left. Dr. Philips had arranged the rest of the trunk in boxes. Tire chains. Jumper cables. Two cans of 30 weight motor oil.

“Your dad takes good care of his car.”

“I help,” I say.

Randy took a step back and leaned on one foot as though he was thinking. “Okay,” he said, “here’s what I can do.”

MIMI COMES OUT of the bathroom all warm and smelling of soap, and climbs into bed with me.

“We don’t have to go out,” she says.

I quickly roll on my stomach.

Mimi runs her fingers down my back. “We can just stay here and cuddle.”

I slide out of bed quickly and put my underpants on. “Thought you were hungry.”

Mimi thinks about this for a moment. “You’re right,” she says at last. “I am hungry. We can sleep when we get back to Guelph.”

I already have my pants and shirt on. But I can’t find my socks.

“We’re not going to be here much longer. Prague is the end of the line. No more postcards.”

I throw the covers back and check the sheets, and sure enough, there they are.

“We won’t have an excuse to travel.”

I put my socks on. “You’ll think of something.”

“Maybe, when we get home, we should try starting over.” Mimi has put on her green silk dress with the red flowers. This is the dress she brings for special occasions. “I could work some social relevance into my paintings.”

“And I could write a book?”

“You were a hell of a journalist.”

I sit back down on the edge of the bed. “My writing isn’t going to save the world. My articles aren’t going to prevent wars. They’re not going to stop climate change. They’re not going to end poverty or restrain greed.”

Mimi sits down beside me. “Maybe they don’t have to. Maybe that’s the mistake we make, why we’re so easily defeated.”

Outside, somewhere in Kampa Park, a band begins to play bigband tunes. First up is Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”

“But in the meantime, how about we go dancing?”

“Dancing?”

“Why yes,” says Mimi, “I’d love to.”

I COULD HAVE GONE over to Tahoe and circled the lake. Now that I had a full tank of gas, I could go almost anywhere. Instead, I got back on the 80 and headed home.

Randy had been as helpful as he could have been.

Under the circumstances.