I put my hands down to my sides, stared out through the glass. When I was about to tell Tom in a quiet voice that he should stop the car and turn around, I felt Mary’s cool fingers intertwine with mine. She didn’t look at me. I don’t even know if she was awake. But her hand held lightly on to mine, and all of my doubts melted.

The town where we went to get married was called Deen, and it was much farther across the state line than we thought. We drove along the main street, where there were only a few shops: a pizza place, an antique store, an auto parts shop. Behind the line of stores, I could see a baseball field full of kids playing. Through the open car window, I could hear the ping of the ball on the bat, the shouting of the children, the protests about whether or not the batter was safe. I felt so old, watching that scene.

Tom muttered something about being lost.

“Why don’t you ask those kids?” Shirley said hesitantly, and Tom must have been suitably frustrated because he actually pulled to the side of the road where a boy and a girl walked slowly along the shoulder.

“Hey, kid,” Tom shouted through his open window. “What’s your name?”

The boy was skinny, his baseball glove much too large for him. The girl’s blonde hair was long and swirled around in the summer breeze. She pushed it aside and stared at us.

“Sam,” the boy said.

“I’m Abra,” the girl added, in a tone full of confidence and daring that said, Who are you and what do you want?

“Well, Sam and Abra, we’re late for a wedding and looking for a little chapel.” Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead. He said the name of the preacher and asked if they knew where the chapel was.

The boy thought about it for a minute. “I think if you keep going the way you’re going, it’s outside of town, on the right.”

Tom pulled away.

“Thank you!” Shirley shouted.

“This town gives me the creeps,” Tom muttered.

The boy was right—the chapel was beyond the town. Actually, it was a double-wide trailer where a small church congregation met, and the pastor was a larger-than-life Pentecostal preacher wearing a gray suit and black shoes that shone like the deepest reaches of space. He was balding ungracefully, the way someone does when they refuse to admit it and no one around them has the heart to break the news. Long, wispy brown hair was gathered from every corner of his skull and combed up and over the dome. During the entire ceremony, which didn’t last more than ten minutes, he kept reaching up with a yellow handkerchief and wiping the sweat from his face and forehead.

When he asked for the rings, Tom reached in his pocket and handed me the green twist tie. Mary giggled as I slid it on her finger.