A while ago I got on the bus to go home from work and there was a half-torn sheet of oak tag carelessly taped to the back of the divider behind the driver. Scrawled on it, almost illegibly, were these words: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I slept on the train down. Made my connection to the crowded little commuter train but missed the stop—I awoke to see the sign for Bussiere-Galant out there in the darkness as we pulled away. And I hated, hated myself for fucking up. I got off at the next stop and the station master offered to let me phone from his office, and I spoke to Yves’ son Sebastien, who said my mom was on her way to the station but they'd come out to get me in this other town now. He sounded irrepressibly, unaccountably cheerful.