His boss sent him up to the state transportation museum in Sacramento to do estimates and consulting, plus a little welding on steam-locomotive boilers. He came back late in July with blisters on his arms and lungs full of carbon. When he stepped from his Ford in the parking lot, an elderly Asian man got out of a car in the next row. It was Mr. Wu from the laundry.

“Hello,” he called.

“Hey,” Paul said. “The laundryman.”

“That’s right. Look, I got a question for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you call the state and tell them my boiler was ready to blow up? That I carried a hundred and fifty pounds on it?”

Paul looked over the man’s head, as though the answer might be hanging in the air. “Did a state inspector come by?”

“Yeah. The bastard who checks blue sheets. He condemned the boiler. Says I got to buy a new one, and hey, you saw my operation. I can’t afford that.” Mr. Wu ran a hand over his bristly gray hair.

“What’s the alternative?”

Mr. Wu tilted his head slightly. “I’ll close down for good. Send the girls home to draw welfare.”

Paul couldn’t look at the man. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for your business.” He thought of his sullen boss first, then his paycheck, and he began to move away.

Mr. Wu stepped subtly into his path. “Did you tell the state my boiler was no good? Did you excite those ninnies and tell them to come down on inspection?”

“I can’t help you.” The tawny face slid out of his peripheral vision and Paul saw nothing until he put the key in his lock. Inside, he tried to make coffee, but he forgot to put the grounds in the dripolator. He decided to mix a drink instead, but he could find only remnants of a fifth of tequila, which he held and stared at for five minutes. Picking up the phone, he called his parents’ house. His mother answered, and he knew by her voice that some part in the universe of Tiger Island had fallen out of orbit. In five minutes she told him that Colette had gained a lot of weight. He held the receiver to his head with both hands.

“You mean she looks like she’s pregnant?”

“Oh, I never said that. My God.”

“But you mean, Mamma, that her belly is sticking out in front.”

“Well, you could say that,” his mother whined.

He took a deep breath. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s mine.”

“Oh, Paul,” she squealed, a grandmother’s noise.

“Mamma. Colette is divorcing me still, I’m sure. So calm down and keep quiet.”