The Dearly Departed. Elinor Lipman

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      “As the crow flies? Two miles. But you have to get back on 12A again, then west on Old Baptist Road, past the gravel pit.”

      “Right,” said the kid. “Now I remember.”

      FINN glowed white in the dark, stenciled on the black mailbox at the head of a dirt driveway. No lights, no signs of life. He’d hide the truck first thing in the morning. No big deal. He’d switch plates first—he was in New Hampshire now, Live Free or Die—and find an empty garage, a normal place, like it belonged to some old couple who only took it out for church. He nosed the Ford down the narrow road through scrubby bushes. It was a smaller cabin than he expected from the long private driveway, but nicer than you’d think for a dead guy who lived alone. New paint on the trim, light, maybe yellow. The siding at night was dark, stained by weather, wet-cigar brown. He found the spare key under a chunk of pink granite, sitting like a stool pigeon next to the door. You’re not breaking in when you use a key, he told himself. You’re freeloading. Taking shelter. Resting. Like Goldilocks. He wouldn’t steal anything, except maybe eat what was in the refrigerator. The guy was dead. He wouldn’t mind. He could think, borrow some clothes, maybe call Tiff.

      Because he wasn’t breaking and entering, he’d leave things neat. He’d make the bed and wash his dishes. He could say if they found him, “Look—I didn’t take nothin’. There’s your TV, your computer, your VCR, your CD player, your microwave oven. I was just taking shelter. If I was going to steal anything, I’d have done it by now.”

      Shower. Shave. Wipe out the sink after. Hope the guy had disposable razors; too fucking creepy to shave with a dead guy’s blade. Fish after sundown. Deep-six the gun. Watch TV. Hope the guy had cable.

      Find out if anyone had I.D.’d him, and if the cop had died.