She swerved onto the narrow track that led up to the highway. The rain had turned the path into a slippery stream. She scrambled up the bank with her hands and fingers and knees, clutching at brush and brambles to drag herself along, cutting her palms and muddying her dress. A bolt of lightning spurred her up onto the bridge. Her legs felt as though they were made of rubber. She slowed to a walk, her chest heaving. A handful of automobiles crawled over the bridge, their windshield wipers flailing at the rain. She waved her arms, trying to flag someone down. She walked quickly, trying to gather enough air in her lungs to run again. She was halfway across the bridge when she saw an apparition out of a comic book, a man riding through the rain on a bright blue motorcycle, complete with a sidecar. He wore a leather cap and goggles, a long black leather coat, black knee-high motorcycle boots fastened with a dozen buckles up the side, a long, white scarf like a fighter pilot’s, now soggy with rain. The rider slowed his motorcycle and eased up next to her, shouting above the storm and the roar of the machine. “C’mon, get in!”

He handed her a rain slicker from the sidecar. She hesitated. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him with the leather helmet on his head and his face half-hidden by the goggles. The lightning flashed again. She pulled the slicker over her shoulders and jumped into the sidecar. Water sloshed around her feet. He leaned toward her. “Where do you live?”

“Out West Overland. Two miles. Straight ahead, then make a left.”

He kicked the motorcycle into gear, did a U-turn in front of a slow-moving farm truck, zoomed off to the north, the tires throwing up a wide fan of water on either side. They made the left turn onto West Overland going so fast that she was afraid they might roll over, then roared down the empty road with thunder crashing all around them. When they were a quarter mile away, she pointed out the little white house on the left. He turned in to the driveway and hit the brakes hard, sending out a spray of gravel and killing the engine all at once, coming to a halt under a towering Chinese elm.

Emaline jumped out of the sidecar and ran in, holding the door open for him. They stood just inside the door, water pouring off his leather coat and her dress and hair, puddles widening on the floor as he peeled off the leather helmet and goggles. “Mr. McCloskey.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you in that getup. What were you doing out there in the rain?”