22
Our chariot was the broken-down farm truck with the “Please Don’t Tow” sign. JD squatted and reached under the back bumper, watching the parking lot the whole time. Then he popped the truck’s old hood, lifting it with a bone-jarring screech, and leaned in to replace a missing spark plug. While he fiddled under the hood in the dim light, I rummaged around the back tire wheel wells.
The hood screeched just as loudly on the way closed. Its final metallic slam seemed to travel across the water and echo back to us, and I cringed. JD wiped his hands on his wet jeans and made a face of his own, looking around as if he expected something dry to materialize.
“Can’t help you there, but maybe you can drive us somewhere that has dry towels,” I said.
I tried—unsuccessfully—not to feel smug when
