Why We Do This.

I was in Costco today getting new tires on my mother's car. I had to make a quick stop on the way in to town and the tires squealed. In the dry. Unacceptable. New tires. It is what my father would do. So I had time while waiting to browse the entire Costco in that pathetic, single-person-in-Costco manner. In my cart: salt and a box of wine. I was there so long that I got an email from Costco about their fall specials on my iPhone.

I had a chance to look at the book tables three times. They do carry some good things. I had read the good things. On my second pass a girl was searching the other side of the table; she was maybe fifteen. Suddenly she says, shouts: "They have it!" I don't notice that she's with anybody, so I smile for her happiness. She's grabbed, is hugging, a book. I think it's the last book of the Hunger Games trilogy, but I'm not sure of titles or order. She says, "I can finish it today!" She dances around. I smile. Because this is great.

Dream of this, writers. This is why we do this.