The minivan I liberate is a newer model, the back seat filled with kid's toys. Sage finally hesitates at my choice, but I don't give him an option, or the chance to shatter our little bubble of happy I'm still clinging to. Instead, I point at the glove compartment.
"Find a name," I say, "and I'll make sure they not only get their van back, but they are compensated." That is, if I'm ever in a position to do so. It seems to make Sage feel better and he eagerly hunts for the registration.
San Antonio's glowing lights die behind us as we head onto the interstate again. I find myself constantly looking at Sage, checking him for signs of illness. He finally reaches out and squeezes my hand.
"I won't be stupid this time," he says. "The minute I feel weird, I'll tell you. And I'll take these."
