It was lucky I’d been to the house twice already, because driving around in those hills in darkness was confusing, and Oscar wouldn’t be any help. His head hurt, and he didn’t suffer in silence. “So where are you from?” I asked, to keep him from mooing and moaning and carrying on. I didn’t want Aaron to get distracted while he was driving. It was too easy to end up in a ravine out here.

“Are either of you a lawyer? I intend to file a lawsuit. Personal injury.”

“I hear you threw the first punch.”

“Any gentleman would have done the same.”

I could see Aaron’s face in the green dashboard light. It was not a happy face. I knew he was sorry we’d gotten involved in this rescue mission, going miles out of our way for some silly man he didn’t know and didn’t want to. He was driving too fast, another sign of pissed-offedness. Nicasio Valley Road was a two-lane through empty ranchland, with the dark curling in over the headlight beams. It wouldn’t have hurt him one bit to slow down.

I walked my fingers up Aaron’s arm toward his shoulder, but he didn’t look my way. Now it was turning into my fault, too, though I didn’t see why. I couldn’t remember exactly how we’d ended up driving Oscar. I didn’t think it had been my idea or anyone else’s. The situation had sort of evolved.

“Where you from?” I asked Oscar again. Really wanting to fill the space with a little normal conversation.

“Providence, Rhode Island.” His voice was muffled. He was trying to get his coat off and his head was caught inside it.

“How interesting,” I said, though it wasn’t especially. “Rhode Island, the smallest state.”

“It’s been miniaturized and now fits in most home offices.”

I thought that was pretty funny. Even later, after I found out it was something he said a lot, I still thought it was funny. I laughed. Aaron didn’t.

“Do you miss it?” I asked, trying to keep my streak going.

“Haven’t seen it for years.”

Guess not. “Where have you lived instead?”

“London; Johannesburg; Houston; Ann Arbor; Durham, North Carolina; New York; Boulder; Buffalo. Some others. I forget.”

“Why so much moving around?”

“Work.”

I waited for him to say more, but he was slowing down, running out of words, finally. Maybe the night was catching up with him. “I didn’t know poets worked. I mean, I didn’t know there were poet jobs. Like in the classifieds.”