She locked the door of the tiny white van and was about to start her walk when she heard a sound. There were many sounds in the bush at night—the screeching of insects, the scurrying of small creatures. This sound, though, was not one of those; it was the sound of liquid dripping. She stood where she was and strained her ears. For a few moments there was only silence, but then it came again and this time it was clear that it emanated from under the van itself.

Unlike Mma Makutsi, and indeed unlike Motholeli, Mma Ramotswe was no mechanic. But it was difficult to be married to a mechanic and not to pick up some knowledge of engines, and one thing that she did know was that if an engine lost its oil it would seize up. The dripping sound which she heard from under the van must be oil, and then she remembered. Coming down the track she had certainly felt a bad bump when she hit one of the rocks which protruded from the dirt surface. She had not thought much about it, but now she realised just what it could have done. The rock could have damaged the sump and the oil simply drained out of the van. If the crack in the sump were not too large it would have taken some time, but once it had occurred, then the engine would simply stop, just as hers had done that night. And Mma Ramotswe further knew that when an engine seized, awful damage was done. She and Mma Makutsi could survive for long periods without tea, but engines, alas, were different.

She turned away with a heavy heart and began to trudge up the track. She was closer to the main road than she had thought and in less than fifteen minutes she was at the junction. The road to Lobatse was relatively busy, and it was not long before a set of headlights swung into view over the brow of the hill. She watched as a truck sped by, the wind from its passing brushing against her face. That had been going in the wrong direction, down towards Lobatse, but there would be vehicles going the other way. She began to walk.