“You’re not going to die on me, Otis,” I said. “You’re going to be wrong about one thing, you prognosticating bastard!”
His clothes were soggy and dripping. My strength sapped away, I dropped his legs and stumbled onto my knees against the barrel and I pounded my fists against his back. Water splattered from his wet shirt.
I pulled him down and he landed in the muck with a splat. Then I pounded his chest until I was surprised by the eruption of muddy brown water from his mouth. He coughed and coughed, his whole body shaking. His eyes were closed but he was breathing.
“God damn you, Otis!” I said.
He peered at me, his eyes wide and vibrant. “Mr. Biddle,” he said. “Have you seen the road up ahead? I know you can.”
I stared at him. That man had rarely made sense to me.
“Can you see it?”
