I left the town hall through the side exit, the brass handles cold in my hand, and walked back to my Buick in the gravel lot.
The tire blew three miles north of the rest stop, a sharp metal spike from the shoulder tearing through the rubber with a loud slap. I managed to guide the Buick onto the gravel verge, the passenger side dipping low toward the ditch.
The smell of damp pine needles was thick here, rising from the deep ditch where the trees grew close to the asphalt. A new tire would cost one hundred and eighty dollars, money I did not easily have in my savings.
I got out of the car and stood by the rear bumper, looking down at the flat rubber.
A man stepped out from the shadow of the pines, his boots crunching quietly on the dry needles. He wore a tattered brown coat that was too large for his frame, his face lined with the gray dust of the highway.
It was Raymond, a former local mechanic who now lived near the shelter on the edge of town. His raspy voice sounded like gravel being turned over with a shovel.
“Need a hand, Margaret?” he asked.
I paused, my fingers tracing the inside of my palm where my ring used to sit.
“The jack is in the trunk, Raymond,” I said.
He did not reply. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a greasy rag, and began to wipe his hands on his trousers, over and over, leaving dark streaks on the fabric.
He retrieved the spare tire and the iron from my trunk without being asked, his movements quick and practiced despite the stiffness in his shoulders. He knelt in the gravel, his back turned to the road as a semi-truck roared past, shaking the Buick on its frame.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Raymond said, his raspy voice barely carrying over the engine noise. “Not at this hour.”
“My tire gave out,” I said.
