I am working. It’s almost 10. At night. Why am I working? That’s a very good question. And it doesn’t have a very good answer. And actually, I’m done working, so maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe I feel a little guilty that I took a couple of hours out of my normal afternoon to follow John to his flying lesson and read in the shade of a tree at the airport. (But it was so nice! Until a mosquito bit my thumb. Bastard.) And maybe I’m over the guilt and going to bed now.