April 3. To Plattsburgh for the funeral of J’s grandfather. At one point on the interstate, next to “Exit” it says “Sortie”; it is the only French word anywhere. We drive to JCPenney. An almost empty parking lot in front of the usual department store bungalows. The wind blows sand in our faces. The cashier asks if we want a bag. She forgets the answer right after, and then explains that she asks these questions a thousand times a day, and can’t remember the answers. She explains this twice.