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used to spendhours playing it on nights when he couldn't sleep. After a while it got too easy for him, so he took up crossword puzzles.
    I listened to their conversation between jumps. Mostly it was about people I'd never heard of. Harvey owned an appliance store. Dolly finally got divorced from Phil. Someone named “Neemo” got transferred to Chicago. Angie had three beautiful daughters and a no-good husband. They both laughed when she told him that Louise had married a dentist, this little dumpy guy.
    I didn't get the joke, but I laughed anyway. I was really enjoying myself. I liked the coziness and dim light inside the Frankmobile, the feeling of being hidden from the world but not alone. It reminded me of a trip I'd taken with my parents the summer after kindergarten. We rented a pop-up camper—the kind that emerges magically from a box when you turn the crank—and took it to Cooperstown, New York. It rained the whole time we were there, but we didn't mind. We spent our days browsing through the Baseball Hall of Fame, touching old uniforms, buying souvenirs, talking to Babe Ruth on a special telephone. We couldn't barbecue because of the weather, so we ate all our meals at this diner that had a revolving glass case filled with the biggest cakes and pies I'd ever seen. When we got back to the camper my father would fall right to sleep, but my mother and I stayed up late playing Go Fish by flashlight, whisperingour questions and answers over my father's slow breathing and the steady patter of rain on the roof.
    Staring at the Hi-Q board and listening to their voices, I let myself imagine we were a family. It seemed like a fun way to live, a permanent vacation, the three of us inside the Frankmobile, playing games and eating out all the time. I saw us zooming down the highway, a pink blur passing through a landscape of cactus and snow-capped mountains on our way to the next supermarket. But I saw something else, too: my real father wandering through our house, checking in the closets and under the bed, wondering where we'd gone without him.
    My mother touched my hand. “Buddy, Mr. Amalfi wants to know if we're happy.”
    I shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”
    She laughed and messed my hair, like I'd just done something cute. She pretended to count on her fingers. “I can't believe it, Mike. I've been married for nine years now.”
    “That's a long time,” said the Wiener Man.
    “I wish you could meet Jim,” she said. “I think you'd like him.”
    The Wiener Man nodded. “Jim's a lucky man.”
    “What about you?” she asked. “Are you happy?”
    He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight on top of his little woodgrain refrigerator. “Happy?” he repeated, as if he hadn't understood the question. “I don't know about that. This is a decent job. I like seeing the country and meeting the kids. But it gets kind of lonely sometimes.”
    “Why don't you get married?” my mother said. “You're still young.”
    “I don't feel so young,” said the Wiener Man.
    There was a long lull in the conversation. They just looked at each other. My mother took the gray purse from her lap and set it on the table. She unclasped it and took out her wallet. I thought she was going to give some money to the Wiener Man, but she looked at me instead.
    “Buddy, could you do me a favor? Run into Stop & Shop and pick up a can of tomato sauce, okay? Contadina. The smaller can, not the big huge one. That's in aisle six.” She pressed a crumpled dollar into my hand. “You can get a candy bar with the change.”
    I glanced at the Hi-Q board. There was no way I could win. “Right now?” I asked.
    She nodded. “Wait for me outside. I'll only be a few more minutes.”
    I stepped out from behind the table. The Wiener Man stared glumly at his feet. I wanted to cheer him up.
    “Tell her about that kid you pounded today,” I suggested.
    * * *
     
    The night had grown cooler. High up, the sky remained a deep daytime blue, but near the ground