At least he was getting closer to the source of the problem. Cars were feeding into a single lane, and orange lights flashed in the distance, signaling that a tow truck was on the scene. When he was three cars back from the flashing lights, traffic came to another standstill. He stuck his head out in time to hear a motor churn and catch.

A hood was slammed down while someone revved the disabled car engine. A thick cloud of black exhaust billowed over the tow truck and drifted back to Steve, temporarily obscuring his view. When the cloud lifted he could see the car that had caused the traffic jam pull ahead and proceed down the road without the aid of a tow truck. The car was old. It was covered with rust and had a coat-hanger antenna. The rear bumper dipped on the right side, where it had been snagged by another car eons ago. The paint was faded but probably had been maroon and yellow. There was only one car like it in Northern Virginia—possibly in the world. It belonged to Daisy.

“We have to get her out of that car,” Steve said to Bob. “It’s a health hazard. And it’s a threat to my sanity.”

Bob looked up from the backseat.

“I have a plan,” Steve told him. “I’m not going to tell you about it because it’s dastardly, and you’re obviously a dog of high moral fiber.”

Daisy zoomed into Steve’s driveway at seven o’clock and hit the ground running. “Sorry I’m late!” she said to Steve, adjusting the pink T-shirt she’d thrown on just five minutes earlier. A small swath of flesh was exposed between shorts and shirt, and no amount of tugging would fill in the gap. “Damn,” she said, “it must have shrunk in the dryer.”

Steve took in the cutoff denim shorts and slightly too small shirt and thought they looked perfect. He was highly in favor of exposing Daisy’s flesh.

“You’re not late. And I needed some time to unpack a few things and organize the kitchen. Moving is hell, even when you hire a great company that’s supposed to do it all for you in one fell swoop.”

Daisy looked at the brick colonial and smiled in approval. It was only a few years old and had been nicely landscaped. There was about a quarter of an acre, and the backyard was fenced. If he’d had a wife and three kids, it would have been the ideal house. As it was, it seemed a tad large for a bachelor. Of course there was Bob to help fill it.

“It’s nice,” she said. “I’ve always liked a traditional colonial.”