The first call came around six-thirty.

We weren't surprised. Youngest son is usually good about calling to let us know he made it safely back to University. But he also wanted to know if he should buy a water filter.

One taste of that town's water, after being home for weeks, and he doesn't want to taste any more.

But we have a never-used filter here at home. Wife suggests he wait until we can ship it over.

I mean, he's been drinking that water for three and a half years. Can it be that much worse this week?

An hour later, he calls again. He's missing something. Something vital.

His student ID.

With the modern integrated digital campus, you can't do anything without your ID. Not even get into your dorm (well, yes you can, but you're not supposed to). But food, registration, books, checks, all those essentials...

Gotta have it.

So I check. On his dresser, buried under pay stubs is...

His ID.

We arrange a meeting place. The usual spot between these two cities.

Fifty miles for me. Forty-five for him. And at 20:01 I hit the road.

The convenience store was closed, only a street light for illumination below the wind towers. I wonder what the truckers, snoozing in their idling cabs in the parking lot, thought of the SUV and car meeting under the dim light.

With a box and money-sized package exchanging hands almost in the dark on a Sunday night, they might have wondered.

The hug at the end might have cleared things up, though. Doubt most drug traffickers seal their deals with hugs.

To stay awake on the drive hiome, this later at night, I shun the cooling coffee in my mug and stay alert with my new CD, a Christmas present from the wife.

Bagpipes all the way home.

At exactly 21:40, I'm pulling into our driveway. Just in time to catch the end of the wife's Pirate movie. And youngest son has his precious ID.

And a Brita.