Zane
In Copenhagen, one of my most valued possessions was a car. It was a 1979 Chrysler Cordoba, a long steel sleigh, red, with a Corinthian leather interior. It got about fourteen miles per gallon, needed regular mechanical attention which I handled myself or not at all, and, save for a scratch near the hood on the driver's side, had an immaculate body.
I won it from a writer friend, on a bet. I let him drive it occasionally, but he handed me the title. I was bored, I coveted his car, and I bet him it would rain the following day. He took out his phone, checked the weather report, and said “But what are you putting up?"
“'Continental Driftwood,'" I said. He knew about my novel.
“Whoa," he said. “Just the idea, or everything you've written so far as well?"
“Everything," I said. “The i
