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to see the clock’s red numerals: 3:19. Too sleepy to reason out everything that was going on, her mind synopsized that he was depressed as usual and, judging by the varying pitch of the engine, he was going somewhere at three-something a.m. in a car he never drove. Whatever. She’d talk to Ty when she got home from her morning call with a major client in their London office. Just like the workaholic Japanese to pick a Saturday for a teleconference was her last semiconscious thought as she drifted back to sleep.

    Ty slowly accelerated down Harrsch Road, a woodsy secondary lane with the occasional mailbox identifying another five- or ten-acre spread. Thick woods shielded all the houses from view. He heard the odd plaintive honking sounds of the Harrisons’ emus as he passed them. His kindhearted neighbors had started rescuing the strange birds from various meat ranchers around the country who had discovered that emu meat was not going to be the new pork. Ty felt their hearts were in the right place but he wouldn’t miss the shrill cacophony that ensued every time the birds panicked over a possum or raccoon.
    His right foot propelled the big coupe down the road, as he worked his way through the gears and up the speedometer. It was a real shot of adrenaline to not worry about safety. In his sodden state he wondered if race car drivers felt any fear at such blurring speeds or if they could just shut off the fear. He decided to enjoy that last rush of utter carelessness, because he was going to die presently, probably by running into a bridge overpass or a divider or whatever good immovable object presented itself.
    The needle edged past the century mark and he was now solidly overdriving his headlights as the car floated over the dips in the narrow, black, tree-lined corridor. Reaching to uncork the Glenmorangie and take a pull, he single-handed the wheel at one-ten, a wildly exhilarating feeling. He took out a CD and put it in the deck. The song’s instrumental opening got Ty’s hands tapping on the wheel. The lyrics evoked an image of the here and now:
    You call me a fool
    You say it’s a crazy scene
    This one’s for real
    I already bought the dream
    So useless to ask me why
    Throw a kiss and say good-bye
    I’ll make it this time
    I’m ready to cross that fine line…
    Listening to the song on the way home from work one evening recently, Ty had really heard for the first time what Steely Dan was saying.
    Drink Scotch whisky all night long and die behind the wheel… What a great, heroic notion. Forget shooting yourself. Anyway, I don’t even have a handgun. Forget pills, that’s a woman’s way to go. Exhaust fumes? Too passive. That’s for pussies.
    â€œPassive pussies,” he slurred and chuckled at the alliteration.
    No, go out in style, my man.
    They call me Deacon Blues…Deacon Blues…
    Drink Scotch whisky all night long, or at least until you’re shitfaced enough to do it, and die behind the wheel of a really fine automobile. No one could say Ty Greenwood didn’t know how to kill himself.
    They got a name for the winners in the world… As Walter Becker and Donald Fagen’s words and music filled the car, Ty had another decision to make: where to do it.
    I want a name when I lose…
    He’d drive away from town and run himself into a nice concrete something or other.
    My back to the wall, a victim of laughing chance…
    He’d know it when he saw it. He took another pull off the Scotch.
    This is for me the essence of true romance…
    He wondered what the impact would be like, then realized he had unconsciously buckled his seat belt. He chuckled slightly, unfastened it, and put the Scotch to his lips.
    Drink Scotch whisky all night long and die behind the wheel…
    As he laid the bottle on the seat, Ty caught a flash of brown and a spark of red animal retinas in the distant penumbra of his headlight beams. He