Decades ago three friends and I were driving back at night from Gubbio’s lively festival to Urbino, in Italy, about an hour’s drive.  We passed two fellow students hitching home and stopped to give them a ride. Our rented Fiat was not built for six, but we’d manage. The woman sitting shotgun, B., offered to put some things in the trunk to make more room in the car. On the backseat two of the women sat on the other women’s laps. We were a mix of Italians and Americans all studying in Urbino for various lengths of time. We chatted freely while B. was outside.

B. got in and gave me back the keys so I could start the car. The key would not turn. I jiggled it several times before it turned freely, too freely. I was now holding  only part of the key. The narrow end was still inside the ignition.

“I had some trouble opening the trunk. I guess I tried too hard.” B. said sheepishly.  Stunned, I thought, “We’ll all be here awhile.” But I was wrong. The four women hopped out of the backseat, said some quick goodbyes, and were soon offered a ride.

B. and I stood on the side of the dark country road.

The details of the moments that follow remain vague: B. and I made it home, the Fiat was towed, damages were paid.

However, I vividly recall watching a car drive off with the four women inside.