Next morning, I began the day with a repeat, then showered again, deciding under the warm spray that today was the day.
“Enough jerking around,” I declared.
In July, with days heating up, San Francisco’s cool summer fog stayed west of the Berkeley Hills so the East Bay—as our area was known—could get temperatures in the hundreds. Eighties were common, nineties often enough, all of it the same dry heat that engulfed California in its entirety. I took time dressing, finally deciding on khaki shorts and orange tee. As I slipped on sandals, I wondered what to say to Glenn.
When I rang the bell and got no answer, I knocked, and when that went unheeded, I began to pound, calling, “Glenn, It’s Noah, Noah Dahl.”
When the door swung open, it did so with a near-violent yank. “What?” he demanded,
