Jack Doran, eighty-seven, closed the book he was reading. He’d finished it. He set it down, thinking how he didn’t want to say goodbye to the characters he’d just been reading about. He had a briarwood pipe, packed and ready to go, by his side, but there was no fire source to light it. Being four o’clock in the afternoon, he thought he might take a light walk to the grocery store, one mile away, and pick up a match.

He stood up, put the pipe in his mouth, and steadied his wobbly frame. The daughter he lived with was busy in the kitchen making dinner. She’d taken him in when it became evident that he would not longer be able to live on his own and adequately take care of himself. He had a slight degree of dementia, but other than that, he was a happy and healthy old man. A native from Ireland.

He thought about his Irish childhood as he exited the front door and crossed over the gray rocks in the front yard. He made a left, heading for the store, and spotted a dead rabbit in the neighborhood road. “Poor thing,” he said. He ambled along the sidewalk and thought that the summer afternoon air was warm but strangely refreshing, in a sort of comforting way. He walked by and neighbors who were watering their lawns smiled at him. He smiled back and continued along his way. He watched as a car backed out of the driveway and almost ran over a boy on his bike. The car slammed on its brakes and he smiled. As the boy rolled by on his bike, Jack put his hand out and touched the boy on the head.

He was thinking about the pipe when he saw the grocery store in sight. He went through the parking lot, trying to avoid getting in trouble with cars who all seemed to be in a hurry. He entered through the front automatic doors and went over to the counter in the front of the store. He said to a woman who looked busy with some paperwork, “Do you have a match?”

“What?”

He held out his pipe and said, “Fire.”

“Oh, sure.” She reached down below and handed him a matchbook.

“Thanks,” he said. He went outside. He tired to light four matches, but was foiled by the wind. He went behind a concrete pole and finally lit his pipe. It was burning well as he set off on his walk back home. He was smoking away when a cop car pulled up next to him.

“Mr. Doran. Would you like a ride home?”

“What?”

“Come with me,” he said and opened the passenger door. He helped the old man who was shaky on his feet get into the car. He buckled him in. Jack laughed.

They drove a short distance up the road and the cop walked Jack up to the front door. His daughter, Mary, came to the door and said, “Dad! What are you doing?”

“I needed a match for my pipe.”

“I have matches in the kitchen.”

The cop said, “I saw him. I knew who he was. I knew where he lived.”

“Thank you,” said Mary.

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He turned and walked away.

Jack watched him get back into the car and pull down the road. He walked back to his chair and continued to smoke his pipe. His daughter went into the kitchen and called out, “Dad, dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” He just smiled and smoked away.