I forgot to tell you that the other day, on my way out to the island, I pulled off the L.I.E. because Scout was jumping around in the backseat in a particularly frantic way. There had been a huge thunderstorm about an hour or so before (on the radio they were saying it was a tornado), where it rained until you could swim across the road. Do you remember? Anyway, the sun came out halfway through the storm, and the rays through the heavy rain sent sparks everywhere.

I pulled off at the Great Neck exit, and made my first left, onto a suburban street with large houses, and cheap-ass cars. I got Scout out of the the Volvo just in time, and after I cleaned up after him, we went for a little walk. About halfway down the street, we encountered a woman in her forties in black leggings and a black sleeveless turtleneck. Her hair was black and poofy on the top, and she was wearing black high-heeled sandals. She was very tan, and she was clicking around in the middle of the street talking to herself. “I can’t find my garbage can,” she said to the trees and the sky and maybe to God. “I can’t find my garbage can. It blew away.”

I really liked her—she was like my past—and I was tempted to offer to help her. But I felt uneasy—after all, I was a trespasser with a bag of poop in my hand, and, guess what?, nowhere to throw it away. (No garbage can.)

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