The rain had been falling since before sunrise, turning the two-lane highway outside Millstone, Ohio, into a strip of black glass.
Most drivers barely slowed when they passed the old blue Buick on the shoulder.
A few looked.
One truck honked.
Nobody stopped.
Until a motorcycle did.
The rider had already gone nearly a quarter mile beyond the stranded car when he looked into his mirror and saw the elderly woman again.
She stood beneath a cheap plastic umbrella that had turned partially inside out.
One hand held the umbrella.
The other rested against the roof of the Buick as if the car itself was helping her remain upright.
A brown paper grocery bag had split beside the rear tire.
Oranges rolled through the wet grass.
The motorcyclist swore beneath his helmet.
Then he made a U-turn.
His name was Nathan Cole.
He was forty-six years old, owned a small motorcycle-repair shop outside town, and had spent most of his adult life cultivating the kind of appearance that discouraged strangers from asking questions.
Heavy black boots.
Weathered leather vest.
Tattooed forearms.
Dark beard beginning to gray.
A scar near his left eyebrow.
At six feet two inches and nearly two hundred forty pounds, Nathan looked like someone people expected trouble from.
That expectation had once been accurate.
Now he mostly wanted to repair engines, pay his bills, and be left alone.
He pulled his motorcycle behind the Buick and switched on the hazard lights.
The elderly woman watched him approach.
She tightened her grip around the umbrella.
Nathan noticed.
He stopped several feet away.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m fine.”
Nathan looked at the Buick.
The front-right tire was completely flat.
Then he looked at the groceries scattered through the grass.
“Looks like your car disagrees.”
“I have already called someone.”
“Good.”
“He said forty-five minutes.”
Nathan looked down the empty road.
“How long ago?”
The woman hesitated.
“About an hour.”
Nathan nodded.
She was perhaps eighty.
Maybe older.
Small.
Silver hair curled beneath a plastic rain hood.
A dark green coat reached nearly to her ankles.
Her shoes were completely soaked.
Nathan pointed toward the car.
“Why aren't you sitting inside?”
“The battery died while I was waiting.”
“You don't need the battery to sit.”
“The window won't go up.”
Nathan looked.
The driver's window was stuck halfway open, allowing rain to soak the seat.
“Right.”
The woman studied him.
“You don't work for the towing company.”
“No.”
“Then why did you stop?”
Nathan looked toward the oranges in the ditch.
“Bad timing, mostly.”
She stared.
He almost smiled.
“I'm Nathan.”
“Good for you.”
That made him laugh.
The woman seemed offended that she had amused him.
Nathan bent and began gathering groceries.
“You don't need to do that.”
“I know.”
“You'll get your clothes muddy.”
“Lady, look at me.”
She looked.
His jeans were already covered with road spray.
His boots were soaked.
The leather vest bore years of grease stains.
For the first time, her expression softened.
“Fair point.”
Nathan retrieved two oranges, a can of soup, a box of tea, and something that had once been a loaf of bread.
“That one's dead,” he said.
“I can see that.”
“Funeral's Thursday.”
She almost smiled.
Nathan saw it.
Then she quickly looked away.
He gathered everything salvageable and placed it on the back seat.
“Spare tire?”
“In the trunk.”
Nathan opened it.
No spare.
Instead he found a mobility cane, three reusable shopping bags, a folded cardigan, and two dusty boxes of Christmas decorations.
“No tire.”
The woman frowned.
“My son removed it.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“Why?”
“He said it was bald.”
“Did he replace it?”
“He intended to.”
Nathan nodded.
“Classic son move.”
She looked at him.
“You have children?”
“No.”
“Then you don't know.”
“I know people.”
He crouched beside the ruined tire.
The sidewall had split.
No patch would save it.
“You live far?”
“Eight miles.”
“I'll call someone I know.”
“I told you, I already called.”
“And they're doing excellent work.”
The woman sighed.
Nathan took out his phone.
He called his shop.
A young mechanic answered.
“Cole's Customs.”
“Eli, get the truck.”
“You stuck?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I said get the truck.”
Eli paused.
“Did you crash?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Woman?”
Nathan looked toward the elderly stranger.
“Yes.”
There was silence.
Then Eli shouted to someone in the background, “NATE FOUND A WOMAN!”
Nathan closed his eyes.
“Tow truck. Highway twelve. Mile marker eighteen.”
Eli laughed.
“Twenty minutes.”
Nathan ended the call.
The woman raised one eyebrow.
“Your employees sound professional.”
“They aren't.”
“You own a towing company?”
“Motorcycle shop.”
“So your truck can tow this?”
“Trailer can.”
She looked uncertain.
“I can't afford an expensive tow.”
“Didn't ask you to.”
“I don't accept charity.”
“Good.”
Nathan gestured at the ruined tire.
“Consider it an aggressive sales demonstration.”
“What are you selling?”
“Hopefully not Buick tires.”
That time she laughed.
A small laugh.
But real.
“My name is Miriam Hale.”
Nathan nodded.
“Nice to meet you, Miriam.”
“And I'm eighty-four, before you spend the next hour trying to guess.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
“I guessed seventy-seven.”
Miriam stared at him.
“Liar.”
“Absolutely.”
The tow truck arrived twenty-three minutes later.
Eli Sandoval climbed out.
At twenty-six, he had been working for Nathan for four years.
He wore a red knit cap and an expression suggesting he had already invented an entire romantic story about Nathan and Miriam.
Nathan pointed toward him.
“Don't.”
Eli lifted both hands.
“Didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Probably.”
Miriam liked him immediately.
Together, they loaded the Buick.
Nathan expected Miriam to ride in the truck.
Instead she looked at his motorcycle.
“You rode that in this weather?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Questionable judgment.”
She nodded seriously.
“I had already determined that.”
Nathan looked toward Eli.
“He can take you home.”
Miriam checked her watch.
“No.”
“No?”
“I need to go downtown first.”
“In this weather?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to.”
Nathan waited for more.
None came.
“Doctor?”
“No.”
“Pharmacy?”
“No.”
“Bank?”
Miriam tightened her coat.
“Mr. Cole, you are helpful, but you are also extremely nosy.”
“Nathan.”
“What?”
“If you're insulting me, use Nathan.”
Miriam sighed.
“I need to go to Bellweather Hall.”
Nathan knew the building.
Everyone in Millstone did.
The abandoned dance hall stood near the old railroad district.
Closed almost fifteen years.
Roof damage.
Broken windows.
Condemned after a plumbing collapse.
“You can't go inside there.”
“I didn't say inside.”
“Why Bellweather?”
Miriam looked toward the road.
“Today would have been my wedding anniversary.”
Nathan stopped joking.
Miriam continued.
“My husband and I met at Bellweather Hall in 1958.”
The rain filled the silence between them.
“He died seven years ago.”
Nathan looked toward Eli.
Eli had stopped smiling too.
Miriam held the broken umbrella more tightly.
“Every anniversary I leave flowers at the front steps.”
Nathan looked at the highway.
Then at the old woman.
Then at his motorcycle.
“Get in the truck.”
Miriam frowned.
“I thought you were taking me home.”
“Bellweather first.”
She stared at him.
“I don't need—”
“I know.”
Nathan opened the passenger door.
“That's becoming a theme.”
Miriam climbed inside.
Thirty minutes later they stood outside Bellweather Hall.
The place looked worse than Nathan remembered.