“I should be home well before nine o’clock,” I said to my wife on the phone as I steered my eight-cylinder SUV quietly down the highway at 75 mph with more than 100 miles left to go.
“More like eight fifty-five,” I added.
“That’s well before nine?” She sounded both weary and incredulous. I knew what she meant. I am not as obsessive about time as I used to be, but even outside the clinic, I have an awareness of time that is possibly not entirely normal or healthy.
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