Chet Cramer sat in his four-door Bel Air sedan, smoking a cigarette, a pleasure he relegated to the end of his day. The windows were cranked open, including the two wing windows, which he’d angled in hopes of capturing fresh air. He loved this car. The Bel Air series was top of the line, with four models: the two-door sport coupe, the two-door convertible, and the two-door and four-door sedans. All had automatic transmission, radio, and heater as standard equipment. His was two-toned; the top Woodland Green, the lower portion Sun Gold, a combination he’d personally selected for himself. The colors reminded him of the green and gold of the old Lucky Strike cigarette pack. When World War II came along, the government had needed the titanium used in the green ink and the bronze used in its gold, so Lucky Strike had abandoned the color scheme in favor of a white pack with a red bull’s-eye. When he first started smoking, he’d been attracted to Lucky Strike because of the slogan-Be Happy, Go Lucky-which seemed ironic in retrospect. He hadn’t been happy-go-lucky since the death of his father in 1925. Recently he’d switched brands, thinking to disassociate himself altogether from the notions of happiness and luck. The new Kent cigarette, with its Micronite filter, was billed as “the greatest health protection in cigarette history.” He wasn’t sure why he was concerned about protecting his health, but he didn’t think it hurt to cut down on tar and nicotine.

He popped open the glove compartment and took out the sterling silver flask he’d inherited from his dad. He kept it filled with vodka from his office supply, and he used it to fortify himself before he went home each day. He preferred rye whiskey but couldn’t afford to greet Livia smelling like a loaf of delicatessen bread. He unscrewed the lid and took a slug. He felt the heat of the liquor going down, but it didn’t dissolve the ache in his chest. He checked the clock on the dashboard. 5:22. By 6:15 he’d be having dinner with his wife and daughter, after which he thought he might as well go back to work. He’d taken advantage of the July 4th weekend to advertise a “Firecracker of a Sale.” During special promotions of this sort he devoted long hours to the dealership as a matter of course, and now that he’d fired Winston, he’d have to shoulder the kid’s load, such as it was. He saw work as a blessing, a way of immersing himself in the here and now. At the moment, he was only going through the motions, knowing it was easier to stick to his routines than to try to make sense out of what had happened to him.