He waited. Noon passed. He waited, parked outside the Livermore Sanitarium; waiting for her to be discharged. She’d been in there so many times, they’d taken to referring to the place as Livermorium.

Her mastiff lay in the back of the car, sleeping. Good for nothing except eating and pissing and shitting and—he glanced back at the comatose animal—drooling.

He was more annoyed at her than usual. She was in the papers constantly—ooh, Lindsey Lohan did this or that—and seemed dependent on public attention. She needed him, she said, but he was afraid that it was just to look after Muffin. He glanced back at the dog again. Who names a big dog Muffin, for fuck’s sake? he thought to himself. She does. That’s who.

Half past, and he was getting hungry. The dog was snoring gently as the puddle of slobber grew. He drove the half block to the White Castle drive-through, then back to wait for her.

By two o’clock, he figured that she’d be a no-show. She wasn’t good for much more than the dog was.