“Spikes in the gravel,” Raymond said, tightening the lug nuts with three short, powerful jerks of the iron. “They drop them from the gravel trucks. It happens once a week.”
He stood up, his knees cracking as he straightened, and wiped his greasy palms on his trousers again.
“The spare will get you to the station,” he said.
“Thank you, Raymond,” I said, reaching into my purse for my wallet.
He shook his head once, refusing the bills, and walked toward the passenger side of the car, his tattered coat flapping in the draft of another passing truck.
I got back into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut, the heavy metal click dampening the roar of the Route 9 traffic. The interior of the Buick smelled of old vinyl and the mints I kept in the glove box.
Raymond did not walk back into the pines. Instead, he opened the passenger door and slid onto the vinyl seat beside me, his damp tattered coat smelling of woodsmoke and old oil.
He did not look at me. He stared straight ahead through the windshield at the gray asphalt of the highway.
“He was wearing a red shirt,” Raymond said, his voice raspy and thin.
I froze, my hand stopping mid-air above the ignition key.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper after a long pause.
Raymond reached into his tattered coat pocket and withdrew a small, square object. He laid it flat on the passenger seat between us, his dirty fingers leaving a gray smudge on the white border.
It was a Polaroid photograph, the colors faded to a dull, warm sepia, but the image was clear enough. A three-year-old boy in a red t-shirt was standing near the bumper of a white car, his small hand holding a blue plastic hair clip.
On the white margin at the bottom of the photo, a street address was written in thick black ink: 412 Elm Lane.
“Who took this?” I asked, my hand finding my bare ring finger, rubbing the dry skin.
