COLUMBUS _ The silver pickup curved down the driveway, Uncle Chet driving and Cousin Bruce riding shotgun.
I turned on the gas burner to warm up the coffee, then went to the bedroom, looking for my wallet and the key to Hon's car.
``Told you he wouldn't be ready,'' said Uncle Chet as he crossed the threshold. ``This guy was born late, married late; never been on time a day in his life.''
``In here, looking for keys,'' I called. ``Help yourselves to coffee.''
"Find 'em quick; we gotta go. Bruce has a date.''
``From around here? Who?'' I emerged from the room, keyless, and began to rifle through jacket pockets.
``Girl I met on the Internet,'' said Cousin Bruce, who wore new jeans, a tan camp shirt and sunglasses. ``From Cherry Valley.''
``One of my favorite places,'' I said. ``What's her name?''
``She had a head injury like me, she's on disability like me and she sounds pretty cool, so I thought I'd meet her for lunch.'' He glanced at his watch.
``Where the hell is that key?'' I rechecked my own pockets.
``I'll ride back with you, and Bruce'll take the truck on his tryst,'' said Uncle Chet. ``Then he can swing by here and get me later.''
``Where could she have put that key?''
``By the refrigerator?'' Uncle Chet suggested, glancing at keys hanging off brass hooks beside it.
``Couldn't be,'' I said, but spun in that direction.
``Why not?'' he asked.
``Because that's where it belongs,'' I said, ``and we never put anything where it belongs. Although, wait; here it is, hiding behind the tractor key.''
``For the love of Mike,'' Uncle Chet shook his head.
``For the love of Bruce,'' said Cousin Bruce, and we spun out the door and jumped into the truck.