I am peeking into "Brenda's" purse and find a long, rectangular metal box that is full of junk. It's my box. I put things back and realize that I haven't remembered the exact placement, so she'll know I've been invading her privacy. I feel embarrassed but, oh, well, some woman sees me and asks what I'm doing. I ignore her. Brenda's husband drives home and parks the red convertible on a rounded, semi-dome driveway. I think the dome on the mansion is better, more authentic. Brenda puts things up on the wall. She's still angry at me, and then she needs my help. She wants me to watch dinner for her and I agree, hoping this will make up for the peeking. I look in the skillet and see the meat frying. "Dog Meat," I say, disgusted. The other woman plops in a big candied ham. I feel a little better.