8
In Search of Lost Time

I awakened alone in my own car, in the passenger side. Brilliant lights were shining down into my face, though it was clearly nighttime. 9:03, according to the dashboard clock. I blinked a dozen times and wiped at my eyes, then opened them enough to realize that my car was parked beside a gas pump, and that I was beneath the neon and fluorescent advertisements of a large truck stop. The dense, sharp stink of gasoline crept up my nostrils and made me dizzier still than I already was.

Harry’s face appeared at the driver’s-side window. He juggled with a bag and my keys, opened the door, and climbed in beside me.

“Doughnut? Or chips? Soda? I thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

I stared stupidly at the bag, and at Harry. Food. Yum? “Give me a minute,” I mumbled, adjusting the seat belt to wear a new and less painful groove into my shoulder. At least he’d thought to strap me in. “Where are . . . how long have . . . what . . .?”

He removed a candy bar and set the brown paper bag with the extra food on the floor at my feet. After locating the drinkholders, he set his soft drink aside and put the key in the ignition. “Well, let’s see. You’ve been asleep all day. I took your car because if I’d taken Eliza’s she would have probably reported it stolen and then we’d really be screwed. I went back to your hotel, paid for another night so I could get some rest, then put you back in the car and started out about two hours ago.”

“I slept through all that?”

“Yes, and all this while I’ve been toting you around like a sack of potatoes. Allow me to add that you’re heavier than you look.”

“Thanks. Lotsa muscle. Meat on my bones, or something.” I squirmed in the seat and rolled my head and shoulders back and forth, trying to crack my neck. It didn’t work. The stiffness remained, and so did my bewilderment. In the near distance I saw a stream of steady headlights that suggested an interstate. The presence of half a dozen other gas stations and fast-food stops supported that assessment, and furthermore hinted that we were at an exit. “Where are we?” I asked, hoping to learn something more specific about our location.

“Somewhere in south Georgia. I don’t think we’ve hit Tifton, but we will soon.”

“Why . . . why are we driving through Georgia?” I asked, though the obvious answer was “To get to Florida,” because that’s really the only reason anyone ever drives through south Georgia.

“Because it’s rather hard to get to Florida without doing so,” Harry confirmed. “Well, unless you’re coming from the west. Or unless you want to go many hours out of your way. Or I suppose you could swim for it. But in the interest of efficiency, we’re taking the direct route.”