I was about to announce the completion of my author’s edit of Ozias, Prince In Peril, when the garage called with the news that my car is shot, kaput, unsafe, and generally all washed up, time for it to be replaced.
“We’re being tested,” Patty says.
Now I have to go back to the hospital, in a few minutes, for radiation treatment. Not that I was going to do that much driving, but gee wiz. It was my Aunt Joan’s car, a 1995 Ford Taurus. So it’s almost 30 years old. I could’ve used a few more years out of it.
What’s next? How long is this test, anyway?
I can say no more, just now.
(“It’s only a car,” she says. “It’s a material thing, it can be replaced. It’s not the end of the world.”)
My hip hurts.