“You know why flying cars sell so great?”

“Why is that?”

“I’ll tell you,” he says with that used-car-salesman tone that implies the word if is on its way. “But,” dammit, “you can’t tell Hodge I told you.”

“Okay.” No point in telling him Hodge was dragged to death behind a very-much-earthbound car yesterday.

“Okay. Here it is: flying cars are easy sells because nothing ever goes wrong with them. Absolutely no practical downside to owning one of them.” He smiles, all upper teeth. “Dream come true.”

“Except. For the, you know,” I let it hang there for a second, but he doesn’t see it, “fact it’s not true.” He squinted and shrugged, then went for his coffee. “The part where they don’t exist.”

He slurped off the top of his mug. Under the table, push the recorder closer to him. “Well, like it says on the brochure, we sold a dream. An experience.”

“No,” I correct him, finger pointing up between us, “you told them they could take these cars home.”

“And McDonald’s tells people that a clown loves them.”