I was driving through town last Tuesday when the rain came down so hard I had to pull over.
I ended up parked across from the bus shelter. A kid sat in there, reading a paperback, not caring about the weather.
It took me back. To 1974. I borrowed six books from the county library — mysteries, mostly, for the long drives between installs.
The library closed two years later. I never gave them back. They've been on a shelf in my garage ever since.
That same summer, my father promised to take me to a baseball game. It got rained out, and he said we'd go next week. He never did.
I don't know why I kept the books. Maybe I thought I'd return them one day, make things right.
But now I'm eighty-five, still installing air conditioners when I can. The kid at the bus shelter turned a page, and I just sat there in my truck.
Some things you never give back. And some things you never get to make up for.
I finally said it out loud, alone in the cab: 'I kept the books.' That's the whole story.