Dan did his best to provide decent answers, substituting general errata for information he lacked. Money was pulped when it got too old, he said. It was burned, to his knowledge. Some of the symbols on the dollar were remnants of the founding fathers’ Masonic affiliations. Truly, money was an utterly arbitrary system, especially since the nation had abandoned the gold standard. There had been times in history when currencies became so devalued it took an entire wheelbarrow of bills to buy a single loaf of bread. He enjoyed Celia’s probing curiosity, especially when he had some good nuggets to share. And moreover, he enjoyed being distracted from his own spiraling anxiety about the film.

They reached I-5 to find the lanes thick with traffic.

“Why is everyone driving at the same time?” Celia asked. Unlike Dan, she was more intrigued than aggravated by the congestion.

“The roads aren’t really big enough anymore,” Dan said. “Also, the bridge over the Columbia causes a bottleneck. They say this is one of the most congested stretches of I-5. I don’t know if that means anything to you. But I-5 goes all the way down the West Coast. It connects us to San Francisco and Los Angeles.”

“There’s not always this much traffic on this road though,” she said.

“That’s true,” Dan said. “Right now a lot of people are driving home from work, too. Rush hour starts very early in our town.”

“Interesting.” Celia watched a Range Rover merge into their lane. Dan could sense the levers and pulleys of her mind at work.

“Why do they all have to go at the same time?” she wondered.

“That’s a good question,” Dan said. “That’s just how the business day operates. Everyone goes in and comes out at about the same time. Everyone depends on each other for their jobs.”

“Some people should maybe go earlier,” Celia said.

“You should write a letter to the city council.”

Satisfied, Celia turned to the window and watched the passing scenery. The arches of the Fremont Bridge were approaching, and the radio towers in the West Hills pulsed against the clouds.

Dan drifted into the right lane, which of course slowed the moment he arrived. Without Celia’s questions, his own thoughts inevitably returned to the fate of the screenplay, the conversations transpiring on the other side of the continent at that very moment. He tried valiantly to ignore his fears, to discount them, to worry only about what he could control, but he couldn’t help himself. His nerves knew something was afoot. The probability of good news was eroding by the hour. Good news came quickly. Bad news dawdled.