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called upon to do. And Providence put me in her care because she was kind and wise enough to heal me and therefore prepare me for whatever task will be required of me. I tell her she is as good a soul as I have ever met or hope to meet, that she is an angel in the flesh, and that I will speak her name to God every night of my life before I go to sleep.
Penny slept, Milo slept, and the dog sat looking out a window and sighing periodically as I drove north on the Golden Gate Bridge.
Halfway across the bay, the rain abruptly diminished, and by the time we reached the northern shore, I was able to turn off the windshield wipers.
More than an hour later, past Santa Rosa, at four o’clock in the morning, Milo woke, said he could go another hour without peeing, and rummaged quietly through his gear until the backseat brightened with an unusual pale blue light.
Hoping not to wake Penny, I asked softly, “What’s that?”
“This thing,” Milo said, matching my quiet tone.
“What thing?”
“This thing that makes it happen.”
“Makes what happen?” I asked.
The dog sighed, probably with pity for me, and Milo said, “What nobody would believe could happen.”
I said, “I might believe it could happen. Try me.”
“Oh, man,” Milo whispered, impressed by something he had just seen, “this is radical.”
“I’ve got a strong and limber imagination,” I reminded him.
“Not this limber.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“It’s too complicated to tell,” Milo said.
“I love complicated.”
“Dad, you don’t have the scientific background to understand.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll turn on the radio.”
“So turn on the radio.”
“I’ll find a fire-and-brimstone preacher station.”
“Then I’ll blow up the car.”
“You won’t blow up the car.”
“Try me,” Milo said.
“You wouldn’t hurt your mother.”
“I could blow up just the driver’s seat.”
“That’s a fake-out. You can’t blow up just the driver’s seat.”
“Try me.”
“Come on, Milo. Driving hour after hour is boring. I need some mental stimulation.”
“All right. Which came first—the chicken or the egg? Think about it.”
“That’s bogus. There’s no answer. It’s a paradox.”
“There’s an answer.”
“So tell me the answer,” I challenged.
“If I just tell you, that’s no mental stimulation.”
“I don’t want to know about chickens and eggs.”
The blue light pulsed in the backseat, and Milo said, “Wow.”
“I want to know about the thing that makes it happen.”
“Makes what happen?” Milo asked.
Fresh from her nap, Penny said, “Remind me—which one of you is the genius with the IQ they can’t measure?”
“That would be Milo,” I said modestly.
“Not from the evidence of this conversation,” Penny said.
Milo said, “Ouch.”
“She nailed you, dude,” I said.
“And which of you,” Penny asked, “needs to set an example of mature behavior?”
I said, “That would be Lassie.”
“Good one, Dad.” The blue light pulsed, Milo said, “Holy-moly,” and he began muttering equations to himself.
“There he goes back into his cocoon,” I said. “I almost broke him, almost learned about the thing that makes it happen what nobody would believe, then you woke up.”
“Yeah, right. Which came first—the chicken or the egg?”
“Paradox. No answer.”
“The answer is the egg—it’s time for breakfast.”
At another truck stop, after fueling the Mountaineer, we had breakfast in a window booth at dawn, as the first golden sunlight made visible on the big sheet of glass all the fly specks that a backdrop of night had concealed.
We had to leave Lassie alone in the SUV, but we parked where we could keep an eye on her while we ate. The dog could keep an eye on us, too. From a backseat window, she withered us with the dreaded Stare of Accusation.
After we brought her a grilled hamburger pattie to augment her kibble, we were heroes in her eyes once more.
California is a huge state, bigger than most countries. The drive from Boom World in Orange County to Smokeville was over 850 miles, and we still had at least five hours to go.
We could have flown north, but not with all the I’ll-blow-up-the-car-if-I’m-not-allowed-to-take-it gear that Milo needed, not easily with Lassie, and not without showing up on a passenger list that the apparently omniscient Shearman Waxx would peruse within nanoseconds of our takeoff.
Having slept over four hours before breakfast, Penny took the wheel for the next leg of our journey.
I felt rumpled and grimy, my beard stubble itched, I already had acid-indigestion from my poblano-chile omelet, and I knew I would not sleep in the glare of daylight. Nevertheless, I told Penny, “When the highway comes back toward the coast, up where it gets lonely, wake me.