“I’m ready for it to quit,” said Pete. “Why are there so many cars here? There weren’t this many last time I was here.”

“Beats me.”

A delivery truck passed Pete at a high speed, the gust of wind blowing his hair backward and rattling the windshield. Pete almost made a mess in his pants.

“Do you think people actually live in those big houses?” asked Ruth.

Another truck passed. Pete gritted his teeth. “I don’t know.”

“Pete!” yelled Ruth. She pointed. “Stop!”

They were at the toll booth again. For the second time. This meant they’d been traveling in circles. Which was Ruth’s fault. She was supposed to be reading a map, giving him directions, but she was too busy marveling at French architecture.

The man in the toll booth was eating his lunch. He held out his hand. “You again?” he said with a mouthful. “Two bits, kid.”

Pete swallowed and looked at him. “Can’t you just let us through? We’re sorta lost.”

“You wanna use the tunnel, it’s two dimes. Now make it snappy, you’re holding up traffic.”

Pete reached into his pocket and removed some change. He handed it to the man and said, “This is highway robbery, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” the man said, giving him change. Then he removed a piece of ham from his sandwich and gave it to Pete.

Pete looked at the pink chunk of ham. “What’s this for?” he asked.

“It’s for your dog, stupid,” he said.

Eighty-Three
Mug Shots

The front page of the Press-Register showed Marigold’s face, harshly lit with a bright flash. Her eyes were big and baggy, her hair a mess. The photo made her look like a drowning victim who might or might not have lice.

The headline read, “Man Raised from Dead.”

The sheriff threw the newspaper on the desk and swore beneath his breath.

Marigold held her own copy. She was seated on the opposite side of the desk, sipping coffee.

Coot peeked through the blinds. “The crowd’s been growing all day,” he said. “Don’t these people have lives?”

“We tried to break ’em up this morning,” said the sheriff. “There were too many of them. It was like trying to catch a greased house cat.”

This morning two bricks had been thrown through the jailhouse windows with notes attached. One of the bricks had a note that read, “Kill the witch.” The people were getting dangerous. The sheriff had been getting so many calls that he had to keep his office phone off the hook.

The sheriff said, “The longer I keep her in this courthouse, the more things get outta control. And I simply don’t have the manpower or the jail space to do anything about these people.”

“There must be four hundred quacks out there,” said Coot.

“What is it they want?” asked Marigold.