Until long after midnight, a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while, the door of the office was open, and everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally, someone said it was a shame and closed the door.

About three o’clock, the quality of his incoherent mumbling changed–he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago, his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.

But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry, “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice.