Something was nagging at him. What day was it? He ought to get up, check the calendar in the kitchen. He was supposed to be somewhere, but damned if he could remember.

He closed his eyes again. The sun.

On his face, making him squint against it. He’s on the third-base side, a weekend day game at Candlestick, and everybody’s shocked it’s so nice out. Where s the wind? The whole family s down on the field – Helen’s holding his hand and smiling, proud of their oldest, Graham, out in the middle of the diamond now, by the mound, getting his fifty-dollar U.S. savings bond for winning his age in the finals of the city’s hit-and-throw contest. Kid’s only eight and hits a hardball a hundred and fifty feet off a tee.

He s gonna be another DiMag – you wait and see.

Six-year-old Deb holds her mom’s other hand and, embarrassed at being out in front of thirty thousand fans, holds on to her old man’s leg at the same time. Her little brother, Georgie, begs himself a shoulder ride and now bounces up there, bumping his heels against his dad’s chest, holds on to his hair with both hands, pulling. But it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts.

Sal’s got Helen and he’s got the kids. His own boat. He’s his own boss. The sun is shining on him.

But it’s gotten cold. He should get up. Dusk was coming on and where’s the day gone?

He walked over to the window and pulled it down against the breeze, sharp now. He could see the fog curling around Twin Peaks.

Straightening up, he stopped still, his head cocked to one side. ‘God damn it!’ He yelled it aloud and raced into the kitchen. The day was circled on his calendar. Friday!

Friday, you fool, he told himself. Business day. Customer day. Make-your-rent day. Keep your life together the one day you’ve got to!