Yesterday, I picked up a hitchhiker named Pete who sang off-key. But he didn't kill me or steal my car.

I am anxious about all my family coming here for my wedding next week. Don't feel like there's enough of me to go around, don't know why they are all driving such a long way to watch me marry my husband of three years.

I am writing and writing and writing, and it feels so good. Some sort of soul massage. It's a mystery, not my usual genre, and here's what I've learned: Dermatologists don't care to discuss the potential of Botox as poison with anybody. Google-image "wound botulism" and you'll gross yourself right on out. I think my googling and my interlibrary loan books have quite likely put me on a special list somewhere, and that a couple of guys in Dragnet suits will show up on the porch any day now, flash a couple of meaningless badges, and haul me downtown for "questioning." And Bryce in Pavillion kills things for a living. That last bit is unconnected to research, just something unnerving I discovered right before I met toothless minstrel Pete, who was walking the wrong way on the highway because the po-po told him hitching was illegal, as was walking along the highway unless you're headed into oncoming traffic. Pete loved my car. Loved that only 907 of them were made. Loved that when the po-po came back in his direction he was already in my car and we were smokin' the competition, such as it was. No tickets. Karma's good. People who have cars should always be kind to those who don't, even if they look like potential killers. Everybody needs a ride sooner or later.