News from the cab of my truck: as of Sunday morning, the clock on the dashboard is correct. It has been wrong by exactly one hour since the second Sunday in March, when the country sprang forward and my truck, on principle, did not. I have not touched it. I never touch it. At two o'clock Sunday morning the rest of the nation simply came back around to its way of thinking, the way the world sometimes does if you stand still long enough.

Doris at the biscuit counter says this makes me the stopped-clock man, right twice a day. I told her I am better than that. I am right all day, every day, from November to March, and wrong only in the summer, when nobody is in a hurry anyway. She said the camera on Third Street probably knows what time it really is. It probably does. It has not said, and I have not asked.