Clare is going to kill me for this. “I’m a friend of Clare’s parents. They were worried about her taking the car to a party where there might be alcohol, so they asked me to go along and play chauffeur in case she got too pickled to drive.”

　Helen pouts. “That’s extremely not necessary. Our little Clare hardly drinks enough to fill a tiny, tiny thimble—”

　“I never said she did. Her parents were just being paranoid.”

　High heels click down the sidewalk. This time it is Clare. She freezes when she sees that I have company.

　Helen jumps out of the car and says, “Clare! This naughty man says he is not your boyfriend.”

　Clare and I exchange glances. “Well, he’s not,” says Clare curtly.

　“Oh,” says Helen. “Are you leaving?”

　“It’s almost midnight. I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.” Clare walks around the car and opens her door. “Come on, Henry, let’s go.” She starts the car and flips on the lights.

　Helen stands stock still in the headlights. Then she walks over to my side of the car. “Not her boyfriend, huh, Henry? You had me going there for a minute, yes you did. Bye bye, Clare.” She laughs, and Clare pulls out of the parking space awkwardly and drives away. Ruth lives on Conger. As we turn onto Broadway, I see that all the street lights are off. Broadway is a two-lane highway. It’s ruler-straight, but without the streetlights it’s like driving into an inkwell.

　“Better turn on your brights, Clare,” I say. She reaches forward and turns the headlights off completely.

　“Clare—!”

　“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shut up. All I can see are the illuminated numbers of the clock radio. It’s 11:36.I hear the air rushing past the car, the engine of the car; I feel the wheels passing over the asphalt, but somehow we seem to be motionless, and the world moves around us at forty-five miles per hour. I close my eyes. It makes no difference. I open them. My heart is pounding.