Pete Harrington remembered that because, when he was a teenager, his grandfather had told him that as a young man drifting through Wilksbury he’d met the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and that if he’d had half a chance to win her, he would have stayed on there the rest of his life. That was 1932, and a pretty girl didn’t have much interest in a twenty-year-old hobo offering to do chores for food. Pete never understood why the old man was still telling the story fifty years later: he thought maybe Gramps had run out of things to talk about. Then, between a gig in Cleveland and another in Philadelphia, he’d been drifting off to sleep when he saw a green highway sign for Wilksbury, and he remembered his grandfather and the girl. The next thing he knew he woke up and the bus was silent and stationary. Everyone else in the band was sleeping. The gas station sat far from the highway. An old one, with white clapboard sheathing and a solid wooden garage door that swung up on springs.
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