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keys wouldn’t be here. That’s the rationale I use. All of the pieces have fallen into place. It’s destiny.

It’s after midnight when I pull onto the party block. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I think I’ll look bad, and by that I mean emotionally unbalanced, if I immediately storm the house and start making demands on Wick. I should probably case things out and try to catch him doing something wrong first. I drum my hands on the steering wheel and think this over.
    I pick up my phone, which I muted outside Vergennes, and see that I’ve got fifteen missed calls from my mother, four from my father, and zero from Wick. Not even Landon has called me. I feel ridiculous. I toss the phone in the backseat.
    My head throbs. The only thing I’ve eaten today is the marzipan shoes and a bag of pretzels that I bought at a gas station along the way. I’d intended to buy a sandwich, but their refrigeration system was down, and the only lunch-type food available was nachos. I couldn’t bring myself to introduce a molten cheddar product into my mother’s new car. Her bucket seats are so immaculate, they’re virginal. Sadly, as much as I want to explore my risk-taking side, responsibility dominates my personality. Even while stealing a car.
    I park down the street. What next? I’ve seen people stalk other people on television dramas. I replay those scenes. The next step now seems obvious. Hunched over, I run down the sidewalk through puddles of light made by the streetlamps overhead. For the first time in my life, I wish I was shorter than five feet four. After passing several well-groomed hedges, I finally arrive at 2510 Hobart. A dog barks at me from across the street.
    I’ve already passed three signs alerting me that this street is protected by a Neighborhood Watch. I wonder if I look suspicious? A car passes by and I hurry into the back.
    Before I round the corner, I hear all their voices. They’re sitting in the backyard. I stay on the side of the house and crouch down in the grass.
    Burr: “She wants you.”
    Dale: “Dude, I know. She gave me two phone numbers. Her cell and her home.”
    Burr: “It’s almost desperate.”
    Landon: “She didn’t look desperate. She looked limber.” [Burr unleashes a howl that sounds like an excited dog.]
    Dale: “I know! How many Olympic gymnasts can a guy expect to meet in his life? Zero. I’m totally going to call her.”
    Wick: “When?”
    Dale: “I’ll wait three days. You always wait three days.”
    Munny: “You’ll be back in Vermont in three days. Maybe you should truncate your wait period.”
    Dale: “I’ll truncate you.”
    Landon: “Munny makes a good point. Why not just call her tomorrow?”
    Dale: “Maybe.”
    Burr: “Live a little. She’s a gymnast . She’s peaking right now. You’ll never get another shot like this.”
    Dale: “Dude, Skate, you haven’t washed your hand yet, right?”
    Skate: “Trust your wingman. Seven digits on this hand. Seven digits on this one. So even if I lose one of my hands, you’ll still have her number.”
    Dale: “Cool.”
    Sov: “Seven? Don’t you need her area code too?”
    Dale: “Shit. Do you have her area code?”
    Skate: “I’ve got that memorized. Four, four, three.”
    Dale: “Don’t forget that. This could turn into something.”
    Sov: “What’s her name?”
    Dale: “Um.”
    Wick: “You forgot her name already?”
    Dale: “Shit.”
    Burr: “Concentrate on what she was wearing, and maybe it will come back to you.”
    Dale: “Skirt. Nice legs. Funky belt. She could actually lose the belt. A little too bohemian for me. Rack was decent. Natalie! Her name is Natalie.”
    Burr: “Good recall.”
    Dale: “Yeah. That was a boner-sustaining moment for me.”
    I hear the sound of a can cracking open. I’m disgusted. If somebody says all of the digits in Natalie-the-gymnast’s phone number, I am going to call her and warn her about Dale.
    Burr: “If I weren’t Mormon, I think I’d own a