Traffic sucked on the drive between Detroit and Chicago. I should have known better than to believe I would make it in four hours, closer to five and a half was more like it. At least there was no snow.
I knocked on the door to Michael’s condo. It opened and I was assaulted by the smell of spray paint and glue. Michael stood there in a pair of battered and stained jeans and similarly messed up gray T-shirt.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing? The smell about knocked me over,” I said.
“Rocket assembly.”
“What?” I came in and shut the door behind me, setting my luggage on the floor.
He beckoned me to follow him. “The windows are open, but I guess the stench builds up after a while.”
The dining room area had a table covered with a heavy layer of newspapers. A three foot tall rocket sat
