The car that was stopped ahead of him on the narrow dirt road looked familiar. He thought he remembered seeing it a couple of times in the past few weeks; it wasn’t easy to miss. Most people in the area drove big American cars. This was a Toyota. Blue. Sparkling in the late afternoon sun. He stopped his car a couple of feet behind the Toyota. He could see the back of the driver’s head—a crown of dark hair sticking not far above the headrest. He thought he remembered seeing this driver, too, once or twice at the Sylvan Beach Grocery. She was the only woman in the area who had such a crown of black hair. Why was she stopped here? he wondered. Perhaps her car wouldn’t start. Perhaps she had just braked for an animal—the area was a popular crossing for all kind of animals; feral cats, dogs, deer, woodchucks, opossums—and the road, in summer, was often littered with their dead bodies. Perhaps she had actually hit something and was in shock behind the wheel of her Toyota. The elderly man was in a quandary as to what to do.
