Dodging the Saturn, Cynthia rushes to Ronnie’s flashy red convertible, after retrieving the keys from his secret hiding place. “He won’t mind,” she says to no one, as she wonders how long it will be before the doctors figure out his diagnosis.

She still has that theoretical grand riding on transient global amnesia. She knows she’s right and can feel it in her arthritic bones. Though she hopes Janetta has already forgotten their bet. Because if, on the odd chance, she’s wrong, coming up with a grand would be a stretch.

As she pulls out of the driveway, she spots the same beat-up gray sedan from her crazy dream loitering down the block. A squirrelly sensation zigzags up her spine. It’s more proof that her dream really occurred. And their surveillance is certainly telling. If what he witnessed via her dream—a murder—is true, they must be watching and waiting for Ronnie, their only witness, to emerge. After seeing what they’d done to the dead guy, there was no telling what they might have planned for Ronnie.

Good Lord and thank heaven he’d been taken out via ambulance. Also, in this case, it’s a good thing Janetta held her ground on protocol. Credit where it’s due.

If only Cynthia knew her cars! She’s useless otherwise. But wait, they don’t know her and never saw her. Taking a deep breath and sucking in her gut for support, she does a U-turn and heads back toward the parked car. She can check the license plate on her approach and catch another glimpse of the suspects. Then she’ll play the old-and-forgetful card and drive off in the other direction to make it look like she’s lost her way.

She still scored 28 on her most recent cognition test, and memorizing the standard three letters and four numbers on the car is a cinch. Plus, now she sees it’s an old Camry. Gray or blue? Long faded by California sun, it is hard to tell the difference. But she needs a visual of the murderers as well. Short guy, round face, looks ashen but she can’t make out his features. Tall guy, still in a hoodie. It’s navy blue not black. His nose sticks out. It’s long and pointy. She stops herself from slowing down.

Ronnie’s flashy convertible draws their attention, but knowing how life works for the aged, especially as far as old women are concerned, they’ll never remember her. Just another white head.

“It’s a curse and, in this case, a blessing,” she nostalgically backward quotes her favorite TV sleuth, Monk.

Then, she drives on sporting a wry smile. Reverse justice, even in the tiniest package, is invigorating.