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I’d never been there before. I was surprised, when I located the place, that the employee parking lot was fenced and paved, with a guard in a booth, no less. Most companies in Northern Michigan were more considerate, leaving their workers’ cars out in the open where the Repo Man could easily get to them. I pulled up in Milt’s tow truck and nodded at the guard, hoping he’d figure I was from AAA and punch the button for the gate to swing open. Instead, he gave me a stony stare, so I sighed and rolled down my window.
    â€œHey, how’s it going?” I asked in what sounded to my ears like a falsely cheerful voice. I’m not really known for doing “cheerful.”
    â€œHelp you?”
    I had to make a quick decision on how to play it. I decided to shrug and look dumb. “Got a call, guy named Croft, an employee here? I’m supposed to pick up his truck, haul it in.”
    He didn’t move to open the gate. “Yeah?”
    We looked at one another. The guard was my age, around thirty, and had my build—solid and big. It was obvious we didn’t care much for each other’s attitudes.
    â€œI know who you are,” he said finally.
    It was my turn to say “yeah?” So I did.
    â€œYou’re Ruddy McCann. Everybody used to look up to you, and then you let us down.”
    â€œWell, sometimes that’s how these things go.”
    â€œNow you steal cars for a living.”
    I had to admit, it sounded less glamorous when he said it.
    â€œYou had everything anybody could ever want, and you pissed it away,” he continued. His eyes were cold and pitiless.
    I sighed. “So could you let me in?”
    â€œGet out of here. This is private property. You show up here again, I’ll have you arrested.”
    We looked at each other for a little bit more. I thought about getting out of the truck and reaching into that booth and pulling him out by his shirt, and he could see me thinking about it and his gaze never faltered—that’s how much he hated me. So I threw the truck in reverse and backed away, my face burning.
    There was nothing to do for the next couple of hours except fantasize about punching the guard in the nose, so I was sort of driving aimlessly and after a few minutes I was in what passes for a downtown in East Jordan—a tiny, clean little main street with a few shops and no people, as if they were filming a zombie movie.
    My idle thoughts eventually drifted around to the nightmare I’d had a couple of nights ago, my sleep disturbed by the violent windstorm that wound up knocking out power all across the county. The memory of it was more like something real, as if it had really happened. I clearly remembered the two men, the guy swinging the shovel, and running down the road, thinking I was going to get away.
    He’s dead.
    No I’m not.
    The dream seemed like it happened in the fall, but right now it was April in Northern Michigan, a balmy forty degrees with a light drizzle starting to film my window. I flipped on the wipers and with the first sweep my vision cleared and there she was.
    Attractive, midtwenties, curly red-brown hair falling to her shoulders, wearing a bulky all-weather parka and slacks, smiling. And waving. At me.
    This was not the sort of thing I expected to happen to me either in East Jordan or in my lifetime, but despite my disbelief, I stopped. She trotted over to my window, which I hastily rolled down.
    â€œMy car won’t start,” she told me. “Could you help me?”
    â€œWhy won’t it start?” I asked, as if reading from a book of Stupid Responses For Men.
    She shook her head, wiping her wet bangs out of her blue eyes. “I don’t know.”
    I swallowed down my disappointment over how I’d been conducting my end of the conversation and finally came up with the right thing to say. “I’ll see if I can jump it.”
    I swung the tow truck into the parking