He didn't sleep. He thought about a lot of things. None of them was a name, because he didn't have one yet, and he found that he didn't want one. A name would make the man real, and as long as he was Mom's friend he was only a shape at the edge of the yard.
III.
At a quarter past five he got out of the truck, folded the blanket, and went into the garage through the side door. He hit the light switch and stood blinking in the fluorescent hum.
The garage had been reorganized. When he left it had been his territory and a disgrace: paint cans with dried drips down their sides, a tangle of extension cords, the mower jammed against the recycling bin, the workbench buried under a crust of hardware he kept meaning to sort. Now the cords hung coiled on hooks. The paint cans sat on a shelf, labels facing out, sorted by room. The mower was serviced, its blade sharpened and shining, and parked in a taped rectangle on the concrete. Over the workbench someone had hung pegboard and outlined every tool in black marker, so you could see at a glance where each one lived and which was missing. Someone had spent hours out here. It was a military garage, a motor-pool garage. Whoever did it had learned to keep his space this way in a place where a missing tool could cost you more than money.