“Yes, we are,” Vera said firmly. “If you can’t handle that, then—”

“Read the book!” Miguel said. “We have hours. Wait! Is anyone in there named Adam?”

“I doubt it. But if you want to hear that name, we could stop somewhere and buy a Bible.”

For a second, Miguel looked angry. Then his eyes sparkled. “Read me something I haven’t already read a hundred times.”

Vera laughed and the bad humor between them was gone.

As she began to read aloud, the rain came down harder. She used a cloth she found in the glove box to help Miguel keep the steam off the windshield.

They were still an hour from Omaha when the truck started to rattle. “That’s bad, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Very bad. We have to stop.” The rain was so hard they could see just a few feet ahead of them. “I can’t pull over to the side. Somebody will run into us. Are there any towns nearby?”

“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.