Working the overnight at a gas station, a trucker paid, then paused and said quietly, "Lock your door. There is a man crouched behind your ice machine." He had been there, watching me, for an hour.
At 3 a.m. I fuelled up at a station with pump prices from another decade and an attendant who waved off my card — daylight found no station on that stretch at all.
Overnight, inside a garage that only I can open, my car turned to face the door — mirrors folded, seat moved, and thirty new kilometres on a cold engine.
On an empty riverside path a woman in a red windbreaker overtook me, and ninety seconds later she overtook me again from behind, identical down to the untied lace.
