Bart Simpson had elected to stay at my mom’s house. He had a good sense for how much she needed him at the moment. My mom said he could be her service dog for a few weeks. She promised not to put him in a purse like the rich ladies in the city.

Until I provided her with grandchildren, my mom would have to make do with a dog that slobbered and had terminal flatulence. That was okay with me.

The first thing I realized during my surveillance was that I lived in the quietest town in America. I knew it was small and comfortable, without the normal noise of a big city, but this was ridiculous. There was no one on the streets. I passed a car about every three minutes. I’m not even sure why the town incorporated. It also made me realize I knew virtually everyone in town by name. Or, at least, I recognized them on sight.

After a couple of frustrating hours, I decided it was a waste of time. But I wasn’t ready to go home. I had a boatload of nervous energy. For no real reason, I headed south on Route 9 toward Newburgh. I still found myself really examining every vehicle that passed me.

Once I reached the city limits of Newburgh, I considered running by the hospital and visiting Alicia. That was something I’d never done before. Never even considered it. Did my mom’s little talk have more of an effect on me than I realized? Alicia was definitely special. Like my mom said, she was a keeper.

When I thought about it, I decided I would only be a nuisance if I went by the hospital. I’d see her in the morning when I visited my mom. Or if I ate at Tina’s Plentiful.

Instead, I turned toward my brother’s new apartment. He’d recently had to downsize because as a student, he didn’t have the cash coming in like he did as a drug dealer. He’d given up the rented Corvettes and Camaros for a rented Impala. He had moved from a house in the suburbs to a reasonable apartment on the edge of the city. It was one of the few decisions I couldn’t fault him for.

I parked on the street next to his Impala and called him to let him know I was coming up.

He said, “It’s not a great time, Mitchum. I’m studying.”

“Then take a break. I’m already here.” I ended the call before he could protest any further.

I knocked on the door and waited longer than I expected before I heard him yell, “Come in.”

He sat awkwardly on his couch. There were no books open and the TV wasn’t on. He looked stiff and stilted with his hands folded in his lap.

I stepped into the apartment. “I thought you were studying.”