3 MONDAY, MAY 9, 2011

I have three cars. They go fast across the floor. So fast. One is red. One is green. One is yellow. I like the green one. It's the best. Mommy likes them, too. I like when Mommy plays with the cars and me. The red is her best. Today she sits on the couch staring at the wall. The green car flies into the rug. The red car follows. Then the yellow. Crash! But Mommy doesn't see. I do it again. Crash! But Mommy doesn't see. I aim the green car at her feet. But the green car goes under the couch. I can't reach it. My hand is too big for the gap. Mommy doesn't see. I want my green car. But Mommy stays on the couch staring at the wall. Mommy. My car. She doesn't hear me. Mommy. I pull her hand and she lies back and closes her eyes. Not now, Maggot. Not now, she says. My green car stays under the couch. It's always under the couch. I can see it. But I can't reach it. My green car is fuzzy. Covered in gray fur and dirt. I want it hack. But I can't reach it. I can never reach it. My green car is lost. Tost. And I can never play with it again. I open my eyes and my dream fades in the early-morning light. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as they recede, but fail to catch any of them. Dismissing it, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and find some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet. Outside, a leaden sky promises rain, and I'm not in the mood to be rained on during my run today. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the TV for the morning business news, and step onto the treadmill. My thoughts stray to the day. I've nothing but meetings, though I'm seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my office —Bastille is always a welcome challenge. Maybe I should call Elena? Yeah. Maybe. We can do dinner later this week. I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head down to the shower to start another monotonous day. "TOMORROW," I MUTTER, DISMISSING Claude Bastille as he stands at the threshold of my office.