“If I gotta travel, drive someplace far from where and what I know, I need this book to tell me where can I stay. I gotta know where I can eat. Where can I get gas? Lots of Shell gas stations won’t even sell gas to us. Others, if they sell gas to Negroes, they won’t let us use the toilet. You look surprised,” he said again.

“I would never have thought of that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? A girl like you, you go somewhere and the guy pumping gas, he’s white, the waiter, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Everyone except the shoeshine boy and the janitor or the maid. But me, I have to be careful. Even here in LA, we all do. I’m not talking Alabama, I’m talking Glendale. Right up the road. That’s what’s known as a sundown town. Your black ass better be out of there by sundown. My brother once played a gig in a club up there, and he had a hell of a time getting home at three in the morning, couldn’t get a cab to save his soul. Had to spend the night under a bus bench.”

“In Glendale? What— Oh god!” I screamed as a huge deer leapt out of the woods, antlers and all, right overhead, its hooves flying, its eyes rolling crazily as Terrence swore, leaned on the horn. I ducked and clutched at his arm and he downshifted, swerved, sped up. The deer landed in the opposite lane, and that driver nearly hit it. Both cars fishtailed, squealed, and burned rubber before Terrence righted the Porsche, and shook off my hand.

“Oh! Sorry!” I cried.

“No! No! I had to steer and shift at the same time!”

That brief moment of physical contact crackled between us like experiencing an electrical shock. The deer. The danger. I was trembling. I could not catch my breath. His hands coiled around the wheel, and he kept shaking his head and cursing the deer.

“I didn’t mean to grab on to you,” I said. “I shouldn’t have. I have never been so close to dying. Your driving saved our lives. Thank you.”

“At least you had your gloves on.”

“If you mean because you are colored—” My voice quavered.

“Please, Miss Granville. I am not colored. Look at me,” he insisted. “No, really, look!” I turned and met his eyes, which were dark and fierce. He was about my age, and he bristled with an intensity I had seldom experienced in anyone. “I’m not blue or pink or green. I’m black. I’d rather be a black bastard than a colored boy.”

“I only meant . . .” But then I wasn’t sure what I meant, and I was still in shock. After a short silence, I said, “I hope I haven’t kept you from anything important.”