Would he come back? How much time did she have before he did? Jenny straightened up, facing the direction he'd come from if he came, and reached into her pocket for the change she'd put there when she'd been waving her arms in the middle of the road and thinking that help was on the way. Her hand shook and all the coins spilled to the floor.

Down on her knees again, she scrabbled for the money. Then she heard the motorcycle again.

She couldn't. She couldn't stay in this glass box and wait for that maniac to bear down on her again like some giant black insect homing in on its prey. She'd get out and run into the woody field behind; he wouldn't be able to follow her in there. That's where she should have gone in the first place.

As the sound of the motorcycle grew louder, Jenny grabbed the door handle and pulled. It didn't open. She tugged again, harder, then again, almost

sobbing in frustration. The door was jammed. She was trapped.

Four more times Jenny looked on in terror as the motorcycle rushed toward her. She tried not to watch, but not seeing was worse, somehow. She tried to get one of the quarters into the coin slot, but her hands were slick with sweat and shaking so badly she kept dropping the money. She finally remembered that she didn't need money to make an emergency call, but by then the driver wasn't even bothering to ride off. He just turned around a few yards from the booth, the roar of his engine making it impossible to hear anything, especially an operator who'd want to know her name and location. Finally Jenny gave up and sat on the floor, her whole body tense and shaking, as the rider played his insane game. The sun beat through the glass walls of the airless booth, making it almost unbearably hot, reminding her of Peaches trapped and helpless in the baking car.

She was still thinking of Peaches when she realized that the motorcycle hadn't come back. She lifted her head and hstened. No sound, except her dry, gasping breaths. She waited a minute, and when nothing happened, when no whine broke the silence, she slowly got to her feet. She carefully slotted a quarter into the phone, and punched the number of the gas station, which was conveniently displayed on a sticker on the inside of the receiver.

Busy. Jenny sobbed again in frustration and slammed the phone down. He could still come back;

he might just be waiting, letting her think she was safe.

The sweat was pouring down her body now, and the air in the booth was so steamy it hurt to breathe. Jenny grabbed the door handle and pulled, wiUing it to open. Her sweaty hands slipped and she fell backward, crashing into the hot glass behind her.

Hurry. She had to hurry. She had to get out or get help. She got her coins, slotted them again, and dialed.