because I was afraid of a thief.
Because I was afraid the problem was me.
Finally, I drove the truck to Dave’s Auto.
Dave had repaired our family cars for nearly twenty years.
Big fellow.
Quiet.
Grease permanently embedded in his hands.
“What’s happening, Frank?”
“My gas keeps disappearing.”
He looked at me.
“Disappearing?”
“I fill the tank. Barely drive anywhere. Three or four days later, half of it’s gone. I think I’ve got a leak.”
Dave frowned.
“That much fuel leaking, you’d smell it from your porch.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Leave it with me.”
Walt drove me home.
All afternoon, I waited for Dave’s call.
Part of me hoped he’d say the tank was rusted through.
Replacing a fuel tank would cost money.
But money seemed preferable to losing my mind.
Dave called around four.
“Frank, there’s nothing wrong with that truck.”
I gripped the phone.
“No leak?”
“
