“It’s the Midwest. We farm. It’s miles of plants and cows.”

“Right. We need to look for a place where we can get off the highway.” They saw the sign at the same time. Sunflower Cottages. One Mile.

He looked at her and she nodded. “The rally isn’t until tomorrow. Think you can fix the truck in time to get us there?”

“If it doesn’t need parts, yeah.”

He turned onto a side road with trees thick on both sides. The truck rattle was getting louder.

Through the rain, they could see four little white houses, separate from each other. The middle one had a pink neon sign that said Office Open.

“I’ll go in.” He turned off the engine, then ran through the downpour into the office. Minutes later, he returned with a key on a big plastic sunflower and tossed it to her. “We got the last cabin. It’s at the end, down the road.” He started the truck. “If anyone asks, we’re married.”

Vera knew that even though it was a time of “free love and hippies,” their parents’ generation tried hard to stop what they saw as immoral. Nearly all rural motels insisted on seeing a marriage license before they would allow a couple to stay. “Tomorrow they’ll want proof.”

“I’ll show them my bayonet scar and my discharge papers. I think they’ll forgive a vet.”

With a grimace, Vera agreed. The same generation that believed premarital sex was a sin thought it was perfectly fine to send their young people off to die in a senseless war. They wouldn’t like to know that Miguel got his scar while protesting the war.

He stopped at a pretty little white cabin. “I’ll open it up. Then you come.” He ran to the door, unlocked it, and she ran inside.

“I’ll get our suitcases.”

“And the signs,” Vera said.

With a nod, Miguel ran back into the rain.

It took him four trips to clean out the truck bed. The tarpaulin had leaked badly and everything was soaked.

When Miguel held the two suitcases up, water dribbled out of them. “I was going to buy a new cover, but Uncle Rafe said his was ‘as good as new.’”

“It probably was in 1954.” She picked up one of the signs. The poster board was so wet it curled around the fence stake they’d stapled it to. But that didn’t matter, as the slogans they’d painted on them had been washed away.

“A fireplace! And wood!” Miguel said. “Thank heaven. You didn’t happen to bring any food, did you?” He knelt down to arrange the logs.

“I’m a Kansas girl. Of course I have food. My mother believes that if a person misses a meal, he’ll drop dead. She jammed my bag full of all sorts of delicious things.” She hesitated. “You’re sopping wet.”

“I am. Get me some dry clothes out of my suitcase, will you?”