Watched baseball.
Sunday morning, I climbed into the truck for church and glanced at the fuel gauge.
Just under half.
I stared.
That made no sense.
I tapped the gauge.
Nothing changed.
My first thought wasn’t theft.
It was memory.
My father became forgetful toward the end of his life.
Ever since turning seventy, I had quietly watched myself for signs.
Missing appointments.
Repeating questions.
Forgetting where I put things.
That morning, sitting behind the wheel, I wondered whether this was the beginning.
Maybe I had driven somewhere and forgotten.
So I let it go.
The following Tuesday, I filled the tank again.
This time, I wrote down every trip.
Pharmacy.
Grocery store.
Home.
That was it.
By Saturday, the tank was almost empty again.
I sat in the driveway with my little notebook and calculated the mileage three times.
Impossible.
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I didn’t sleep much that week.
Not
