February 19. Sunday Night.

Hi Journey.

My good friend Dakota simply must swim under the surface of her psyche deep enough to determine why she keeps playing with fire by boosting keys from the boys in the bars.

My fear is simple: she's going to get herself beat on.

Or worse.

She called up Friday night, just after eight. I didn't mind; Eddie and I had no plans at all for the weekend, and I was just home from work, surfing some design websites to see what ideas I might discover to incorporate into the new CD site. Joni and Brady spoke with their designer friend and it seems he'll have a working model up in a couple of weeks so I best have a few ideas of my own to add. You know tech-guys; if you don't supply them with good mortar the wall becomes a bit shaky.

“Plains, you know you'll go straight to hell for stealing ideas like that.”

“Borrowing, Dakota. Just like you borrow those keys from the nice young lads in the bars.”

“I return the keys,” Dakota countered.

“Yeah, after they spend hours cussing you out.”

“They deserve it.”

“I just worry about you, that's the deal.”

“No, you're ducking my last comment. You don't think they deserve it.”

I don't mind countering my clients when we are hip-deep in the creative process of remodeling their home. I don't mind engaging my little sister when she's exposing herself to danger, and I don't mind telling my old roommate she's putting herself in harm's way. But I hate debating her about drunk-driving issues.

But hey, she asked.

“You know, Dakota, I'm in no position to judge you, or what you do. Do I think you're on a crusade? Probably. Do I care? No. Am I scared you're going to get hurt? You bet.”

“ I'm scared I might get hurt.”

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