Here is home and wouldn’t that be grand. But how do I get from this place to that, with Julie still being worked on in the treatment room, or so it seems like. There’s nothing wrong, that’s how, no treatment room, everything’s fine, or she is there but suddenly jumps up fully recovered, or just needs a little bandage here, some other place, and I sign a couple of papers, even write out a check, and we drive home. But it doesn’t even have to go that far — all that was a dream and you are home, that’s where you are. I’ll cook dinner for the kids, make sure they get to bed on time. School’s tomorrow, how about that? “We have clean clothes for tomorrow? You know your dresser drawers better than I, but if you need help, even if you want me to do a wash for tomorrow, let me know.” I’ll read Julie a story while her light’s out and they’re both in bed, Margo reading in her own room. Lately Julie’s been engrossed in Greek myths. Or I’ll sit in the hallway between their rooms, lights out for both of them and maybe on in the hallway, or only the hallway bathroom light on but with the door mostly closed, or their night lights which they haven’t had on for a week—“I’m too old to still be scared of the dark,” Margo had said, so Julie said she didn’t want hers on either but she’s been waking up and going into their room almost every night since because of it — and I’ll tell them a story. Continuation of the Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson saga after they got married and had a child whom they lug around in a back or chest carrier while solving crimes, or just a story started by the first thing that pops into my head. Moral or folk tale, fantasy, biblical or chivalric story retold mostly with dialog, but better, with my kind of mind, something made up on the spot and new. One incident leading to the next, usually humorous and where most of the characters have accents, and the ones I’ve had the best success at and with some great endings that even surprised me. Stories where they both said when I kissed them goodnight “That was a good one, you should write it down so you can tell it to us again.” I usually said “Don’t worry, I’ll remember,” but I never do. Or I can have one of them choose what kind of story she wants me to tell and even what characters she wants in it. “Who picked the topic last time?” I’ll ask, and whoever did it’ll be the other’s turn tonight. That is if they don’t say right away they want the same one. If they want, or Lee says they need a bath before bed, I’ll run one and make sure they dry themselves well, especially their poupies and hair, and then that they brush and floss their teeth. In other words, everything they’d do if their mother was here, though maybe not the flossing. If they want their dessert after the bath, then the teeth-brushing after. Maybe they have to brush their hair too before they go to sleep. I’ll ask them or Lee when I speak to her, which probably should be after dinner and before the bath but certainly at a time when they can both speak to her. If braids are needed, which I’ve seen them go to bed with, that I can’t do. TV? None, or a half-hour show at the most, preferably a public one. And where would Lee be now? Probably at her parents’, maybe helping her mother with supper or having tea with her dad. And the men? Get to where they were going? They think they have to make a detour? Still talking about what happened before, making jokes about it — Fucking great shot, probably got the two snotnoses with one bullet — or they even know how it came out? Maybe the man intentionally shot over their car just to scare them but his aim was bad or the driver made a sharp turn or car went over a bump moment the gun went off and they never saw the bullet or bullets go into the car. It certainly wasn’t anything the driver could see in his mirrors, since the windshield was smashed. He should tell the cops about them, give descriptions, but can he even remember what they look like? Clothes, even their hair? One wore a red tie, but who? Color of their car he knows but was it a two-door, four-door, station wagon, even a van? Seemed to be fairly new and the exterior shiny and clean and something seems to stick in his head that says it was a fancy model of some kind, but he’s not sure. What good would it do? Well, stop them from doing it to other people on the road or elsewhere, and to get even, of course. He should do that now, or later. Write it down, but who’s got a pen? And now, not later. Lots of it should come back, but for now it’s a jumble. Margo! and wheels around for her, yells “Margo,” sees she’s standing beside him, head against his side, frightened now she did something wrong, squeezing his hand. Gets on one knee and hugs her, starts crying and she cries and says “I love you, Daddy,” and kisses his head. If Julie were here she’d make a face and say “You kissed his hair; you’re not supposed to, it’s unsafe.” Wants to say “I love you” back, but no way to, not even nod. Doctor approaches. Doctor comes over. Stands in front of them. He’s sitting with Margo on the curb where the car was, someone must have moved it away; she sprawled across his thighs, though he doesn’t remember sitting down or how she got there and if he stroked her head and back, which is what he’s done other times when she was so distressed, till she went to sleep or shut her eyes. Someone in white at least, looking seriously at him and as if preparing a speech. Probably a doctor: whole outfit white, even the shoes. “Dr.,” tag on her jacket says, and after it — strains to read—“Lynette C. Jones.” Millions of Joneses but always a surprise to meet one. “Lynette” to do what: individualize, particularize, set apart or off? — heck, no reason he should be expected to come up with the right word now — like the Harrison Jones he once met, and another: Severen or something, and a Velásquez, that’s right. Why’s he thinking this? Fool, stupid, and bangs his forehead with his free palm. And who were those people in uniforms before who came over while he was in a stupor, he thinks, or just asleep but feeling drunk, and asked questions? They were told by him or someone else, he thinks, another doctor, male, that he’d see them inside. What color men? they asked, race, they mean. How many in the car? What make, car color, how many doors, did he see the license plate, what color plate then, did he know the men, any distinguishing features other than a red tie on one of them? Then they were gone, as if given strict orders to go, something he’d never do to police.