Apparently one of her ways was running fast and messy through the rain. In just a minute, she pulled up in a white 1960 Rambler station wagon from the direction Boley had started to take. He slid into the driver’s seat as she moved over. I got into the back seat. Mrs. Boley’s shoes dangled around her neck, tied by the leather straps. Her feet and hands were coated with slick, shiny mud and her dress looked like it had just been dragged through the gutter in the rain.
I looked at Boley, who seemed not to notice. Trying to be unobtrusive, I looked at her again. Yes, I had seen right.
I kept my mouth shut.
I watched the rain-drenched scenery as we drove out of town on a small-winding road. It was graded but unpaved. As darkness fell completely, the sense of time slowing down here grew stro
