behind the seat, along with a Mag-Lite flashlight, and walked toward the Volvo. Consciously, I did not take the camera. After three steps, my shoes were waterlogged and squishing. I shined the light into the front seat and saw the lady driver leaning her head against the window, eyes closed.
I knocked lightly with the tip of the flashlight, trying not to scare her. I failed. Screaming at the top of her lungs and waving her hands like wings, she cranked the car, slammed the stick into reverse, and gunned it. She redlined the engine and turned the steering wheel left to right to left again. In the process, she sprayed me with a thick coat of Alabama clay that stung my eyes. I couldn't see a thing. I staggered back, spat mud, and wiped my face on the front of my shirt. Drenched, I put down the umbrella and let the rain wash my face. I regained focus and watched in slow motion as the crazy woman reached inside the glove box and pulled out a big, shiny revolver like something Dirty Harry would carry.
At the first glint of silver, I took three steps backwards and then crossed the road and launched myself into the opposite ditch. Still screaming, the woman blasted through the window, emptying all six shots into the woods above and behind me. Muffled by the torrent, I heard the hammer click several times on the spent cylinder. While she continued squeezing, screaming, and clicking, the Volvo-having now been redlined for almost two minutes-coughed, blew up, and froze solid, sending steam out the sides of the hood. With rain pouring in through the hole in her window, the woman tossed the pistol into the passenger seat and jumped into the back with her son.
With my inner voice telling me to flee evil, I crawled out of the ditch and studied the car from the far side of the road. "Lady, are you crazy? I'm trying to help you!" I crossed the street with my flashlight in one hand and the closed umbrella in the other. If she so much as moved my direction, I planned to thump her in the head and leave them both right there. Boy or no boy, bubble gum or no bubble gum. I shined the light into the backseat, where it reflected off the whites of four eyes and the barrels of two Roy Rogers six-shooters.
Seeing the boy with his guns and the woman without hers, I stepped toward the hole in the driver's side window. The boy looked sleepy and frightened out of his mind. The woman was about my age, and her eyes were sunk back in her head and surrounded by dark shadows. Her face was hidden because her hat was pulled down low and her collar was turned up. Her clothes were too big, too new, and looked like she'd been in them a few days. Khaki shorts and a sweatshirt that looked like she had bought them at a truck stop.
I shined the light but still couldn't get a good look at her face. Fast-food bags, used ketchup packets, and cold French fries littered the floorboards. Having just crawled out of the ditch, mud-soaked, wild-eyed, and draped in clay-smeared hair, I probably looked like what she thought she was shooting at-a crazed lunatic. I'm not sure Miss Ella would have recognized me. With this in mind, I tried to speak calmly. "Lady, I don't know you, you don't know me, and right now, I'm not sure I want to know you or what you're doing out here in the middle of the night, but if you need help, I'm offering. If you don't, I'm leaving." I grabbed the revolver and opened the cylinder, emptying the spent shells. I laid the pistol back down on the front seat and looked at her.
She pointed in front of the car, "We were ... going ... my ... my ... the car." She was shaking, incoherent.
"This storm will be around awhile, and you're nowhere near a gas station. You want to tell me what you two are doing out here"-I pointed at the pistol-"carrying that thing?"
She didn't say a word. Something behind her, either on the highway or beyond, had her scared. Scared badly. The boy too. She shifted, and when the flashlight lit up her eyes, I saw a flash of
I knocked lightly with the tip of the flashlight, trying not to scare her. I failed. Screaming at the top of her lungs and waving her hands like wings, she cranked the car, slammed the stick into reverse, and gunned it. She redlined the engine and turned the steering wheel left to right to left again. In the process, she sprayed me with a thick coat of Alabama clay that stung my eyes. I couldn't see a thing. I staggered back, spat mud, and wiped my face on the front of my shirt. Drenched, I put down the umbrella and let the rain wash my face. I regained focus and watched in slow motion as the crazy woman reached inside the glove box and pulled out a big, shiny revolver like something Dirty Harry would carry.
At the first glint of silver, I took three steps backwards and then crossed the road and launched myself into the opposite ditch. Still screaming, the woman blasted through the window, emptying all six shots into the woods above and behind me. Muffled by the torrent, I heard the hammer click several times on the spent cylinder. While she continued squeezing, screaming, and clicking, the Volvo-having now been redlined for almost two minutes-coughed, blew up, and froze solid, sending steam out the sides of the hood. With rain pouring in through the hole in her window, the woman tossed the pistol into the passenger seat and jumped into the back with her son.
With my inner voice telling me to flee evil, I crawled out of the ditch and studied the car from the far side of the road. "Lady, are you crazy? I'm trying to help you!" I crossed the street with my flashlight in one hand and the closed umbrella in the other. If she so much as moved my direction, I planned to thump her in the head and leave them both right there. Boy or no boy, bubble gum or no bubble gum. I shined the light into the backseat, where it reflected off the whites of four eyes and the barrels of two Roy Rogers six-shooters.
Seeing the boy with his guns and the woman without hers, I stepped toward the hole in the driver's side window. The boy looked sleepy and frightened out of his mind. The woman was about my age, and her eyes were sunk back in her head and surrounded by dark shadows. Her face was hidden because her hat was pulled down low and her collar was turned up. Her clothes were too big, too new, and looked like she'd been in them a few days. Khaki shorts and a sweatshirt that looked like she had bought them at a truck stop.
I shined the light but still couldn't get a good look at her face. Fast-food bags, used ketchup packets, and cold French fries littered the floorboards. Having just crawled out of the ditch, mud-soaked, wild-eyed, and draped in clay-smeared hair, I probably looked like what she thought she was shooting at-a crazed lunatic. I'm not sure Miss Ella would have recognized me. With this in mind, I tried to speak calmly. "Lady, I don't know you, you don't know me, and right now, I'm not sure I want to know you or what you're doing out here in the middle of the night, but if you need help, I'm offering. If you don't, I'm leaving." I grabbed the revolver and opened the cylinder, emptying the spent shells. I laid the pistol back down on the front seat and looked at her.
She pointed in front of the car, "We were ... going ... my ... my ... the car." She was shaking, incoherent.
"This storm will be around awhile, and you're nowhere near a gas station. You want to tell me what you two are doing out here"-I pointed at the pistol-"carrying that thing?"
She didn't say a word. Something behind her, either on the highway or beyond, had her scared. Scared badly. The boy too. She shifted, and when the flashlight lit up her eyes, I saw a flash of
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