To my surprise, he took the southbound exit away from Church Hill, drove toward my apartment building, and pulled into my building’s parking lot. I kept driving, stopping at the next corner and parking. In my rearview mirror, I watched him drive by my empty space. He paused only briefly before pulling back out on the road and retracing his steps. I did a quick U-turn, trailed behind, watched him turn east down Main Street toward Church Hill. Why had he stopped at my building? Had Brit given him something to drop off for me?

As a light caught him at a cross street, I turned right, circled the block, and picked him up on the other side of the light. Minutes later, he parked in front of a historic townhome that wasn’t particularly remarkable. The front porch required repair, and the building needed the siding replaced. He climbed the front steps and vanished through the front door. Lights flipped on, their glow streaming through original windows made of handblown glass.

I studied the house, searching for any sense of familiarity. I imagined my hand trailing over the weather-beaten wood railing, wondering if splinters or gray paint had clung to my skin. Rubbing my smooth palm, all I felt was the small ridge of calluses trailing under my fingers.

David passed in front of a window and then pulled the shade down. As he reached the next window, he paused and stared out into the darkness as if he could feel my gaze. I sank into my seat but did not look away.

Had I caught him staring at me before? Memories from the darkness whispered, but the sound was so faint I could barely make out the impressions. I was certain now I’d been in the bar, sipping a cold Coke. It had tasted slightly bitter, but I’d been thirsty, so I had kept drinking. On the table in front of me was the print I’d sold.

One by one the lights went off in David’s house.

I noted the address, started my car, and as I drove back down the hill toward my crash site, I spotted the bar on my right. It was closed for the night, but I parked and walked to the window. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered inside to darkened tables. Nothing triggered my memory, and when a car passed by, slowed down, I hurried back to my vehicle.

Down the side street, I glanced toward the utility pole. If I’d been going forty, even thirty, miles an hour, it was no wonder I’d missed the turn and swerved into the pole.

I’d never been able to explain why I’d been headed in this direction. Now I realized I’d been in Church Hill selling my first print. But who had I sold it to?