Saturday. I got out of bed and looked at the calendar on my computer. (This is the kind of thing you can do easily if you don’t share a bed with your husband. He snores, I’m a light sleeper.) On Saturday at three o’clock Harris had driven Sam to a playdate, so at four I had been alone. That’s right—I had dutifully called my parents, but they weren’t home so I began texting friends in New York about my upcoming visit; I had just turned forty-five and this trip was my gift to myself. I was going to see plays and art and stay in a nice hotel instead of with friends, which normally would feel like a waste of money, but I’d gotten a surprise check—a whiskey company had licensed a sentence I’d written years ago for a new global print campaign. It was a sentence about hand jobs, but out of context it could also apply to whiskey. Twenty grand.