Sturgis, Michigan

The driver dials Mr. Warshansky one last time, on a phone outside Carter’s Drug and Grocery. It’s in the process of closing down for the evening, but a kindly and withered man –apparently one in a long line of Mr. Carter’s- has agreed to let him use it before he locks it up for the night. The rings go on forever. The driver decides there is nobody home and can’t decide whether this is a good or a bad sign.

“Did you get in touch with who ya needed?” Mr. Carter has one of those strained though friendly old man’s voices. He smiles at everything he, and others, say –though he usually doesn’t catch much of the latter.

“Fraid not.”

“Oh dear. Am’sorry to hear that.” It’s a wonder how the elderly take the most minor of life’s setbacks to be great tragedies (and maybe vice versa), worthy of dramatic shows of commiseration. The driver appreciates the effort, but doesn’t wish to continue the conversation.

“S’arright. Thanks for the phone, though.”

“No problem. Now have yourself a safe trip. Where’d you say it was you’re heading.

“Dearborn.” The driver is already opening the car door and ducking in.

“Oh my, what a long ways. Well, you be careful.” Mr. Carter says this more to himself, in a ponderous, halting way; which is all for the best, because by the time he gets to the end of his train of thought, the driver is halfway down the road, a belch of dirt and exhaust trailing up behind him.