Nothing calms the nerves like frozen confections. 

So, at 1:58, Jilly-bean and I are in the kitchen finishing our ice cream sundaes. I scrape the spoon around the base of my bowl, scooping the last of the melted ice cream and chocolate syrup.

"Mom doesn't need to know about our ice cream luncheon, right?"

"I'm okay with that," she says, adding another squirt of whipped cream to her bowl.

I confiscate the can of whipped cream and gather the sticky utensils.

"So, you wanna hear about my science project?" She licks her fingers.

"Do I have a choice?"

"I'm gonna demonstrate why lawn chemicals are so bad."

"Bad for who?"

"For everybody. People. Pets. Insects. Birds. The whole earth."

I rinse the bowls and spoons in the sink.

"Think of all the bees and earthworms already dead from lawn chemicals. Pretty soon we're not gonna have any more food if we keep killing them."

"Sounds to me like you've been doing a lot of reading."

"I need to verify my sources."

I turn to my daughter wearing a proud smile.

                                                                                         #######

2:44. In my upstairs office, I finish photographing the pertinent documents in the Trollamex files. Now I can get them out of this house and return them to Carl. I dial.

"Dunning and Brannigan," says Wren.

"Hey, Wren. It's Phil."

No response.

"Phil Robiski."

More silence.

"May I speak to Carl?"

"One moment, please."

"Ola, Phil," Carl says cheerfully. He gulps his coffee. 

"Can you turn down the temperature?"

"Huh?"

"Isn't that what you said at the end of our last meeting?"

"I may have. You're not recording this conversation, are you?"

"No, I'm not. I'll bring the files in. You can call off your thugs."

He takes another long drink of coffee before asking, "Somebody came by the house for those files?"

"Come on, Carl. I'm not Bernie."

"Phil, you remember when I said that we didn't want to throw sand in their jockey shorts?"

"Yeah, I do recall that."

"Sounds to me like somebody over at Trollamex got their giblets chafed."

I wince at the mental image. 

"Why don't you harness the huskies and let's hack through the tall grass?"

"You want me to come over for a meeting?"

"That's what I said."

                                                                                       #######

4:12. Jillian and I are on our way home from dropping off the Trollamex files at Dunning and Brannigan. There's a new grinding noise coming from under the hood, which isn't the least bit reassuring. I try to tune it out but it's definitely getting louder.

"It totally smells like there are dead mouse bodies under these seats," she moans. 

"Can you give me a break, Jillian? "We're almost home."

There are times when my daughter's precocious behavior is bearable, often entertaining. Now is not one of those times. Carl sweetened his job offer deal. I need to give this some serious consideration. I don't need Jillian's attitude.

She leans out the window for fresh air. "Thanks for leaving me with that weird lady back there. You said you were just gonna be a minute."

"You mean Rhonda?"

"The lady that smells like bug spray. She's in love with spreadsheets."

"Yep. That's Rhonda."

"She said I need to learn about them. Why would a little kid need spreadsheets? That makes zero sense."

"Did she mention diatomaceous earth?"

"What?"

My phone rings. I don't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Robiski?"

"Yes."

"Kendra Seymour."

Who?

"From your insurance company. About your car?"

"Oh."

"I'm at your home. We had a four o'clock appointment. Remember?"

I wince.

"I'm so sorry. I'll be there in five minutes."

                                                                                         #######

I miscalculated.  It's fourteen minutes before I arrive home. 

Kendra Seymour is pacing in my driveway when I pull in, my bungeed hood flapping violently. The expression of horror on her face is what I would expect of someone witnessing a flaming airplane crash-landing in my front yard.

I slam on the brakes and jump out of my car, startling the squirrel pilfering sunflower seeds from our birdfeeder. He spits husks and leaps from his perch.

"I apologize. I forgot about--"

Kendra's eyes grow wider as she examines my car. Jillian gets out.

"Hey, there." She smiles at my daughter and gives her a patronizing little wave of her hand.

"Hi," Jilly-bean responds.

"There's a lot more damage here than I expected," Kendra says with a sigh. "When you said dented hood..."

"Yeah, I know."

She slips her notebook out of her shoulder bag and writes with her stylus. 

"It's probably not a good idea to drive this vehicle until it's been repaired."

"That's what I said," Jillian scowls.

"Go do your homework." I shoo her away.

Jillian jogs into the house as Kendra paces slowly around the front of the car.

"Does the hood open?"

"Not all the way."

"Both fenders are damaged." She writes. "The grill is cracked and it looks like the hood latch is missing. Has a mechanic inspected this vehicle?"

"No. Not yet."

"My advice is to get it to a mechanic and body shop ASAP. Take advantage of your rental car coverage." She shakes her head. 

"You should have seen it before I had the windshield installed."

She's not impressed. 

"My goodness. What's that smell?"

She squats and peers under the vehicle.

"It's not leaking any fluids?"

"No. I don't think so."

She briefly loses her balance and instinctively grabs my bumper to steady herself. Her stylus slips from her hand and rolls under the car. She extends her arm but the stylus is out of reach. She grunts, "Agh!"

"I'll back up the car." I reach for the door handle.

"No. Don't. My sleeve is stuck on something."

She's trapped in a squatting position with her face against my bumper and her arm beneath my car.

"You're stuck?"

"As in I can't move. I'm not joking."

I get down on the pavement, roll onto my back and wiggle my way beneath the car.

"Okay, I think I see the problem. There's a bolt... or something." 

"I'm getting a cramp in my thigh."

Chips of road debris from the suspension land on my face as I work the cuff of her sleeve back and forth.

"Hurry. My leg is going numb."

"I'm trying."

"I can't feel my foot." She whimpers.

Giving her sleeve a hard yank, the fabric rips, freeing her arm. She crashes backward onto her butt. By the time I crawl out from beneath the car I find her lying on her side massaging her thigh. She's not even trying to hide the fact that she's crying. I'm not overstating when I say that Kendra Seymour is having a bad day.

"Well, the good news is," I say with a smile. "I found your stylus."