“Where’re you coming from?” he asked.

“Bakersfield. I’m on my way to Santa Teresa.”

We passed through to the second aisle. His wife was standing by the Mustang and she sent me an apologetic smile, as though she felt responsible for the problem I’d been dealt.

He said, “I’m Ron Swingler, by the way, and this is my wife, Gilda.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as we shook hands all around. “I appreciate your taking the time to let me know about this.”

They shared a similar body type, round through the middle with truncated extremities. Easy to see how their shared lifestyle and eating habits had created the symmetry.

“What about you? Where are you from?” I asked.

“Texas. This is our honeymoon. We’ve been married two days.”

There went that keenly observed conclusion.

Then I caught sight of my left rear tire. “Well, dang. That is flat.”

“Look here.” He pointed to a round metal circle the size of a pencil eraser between the sidewall and the hubcap with its tiny silver horse in the center. “Looks like a roofing nail, which is technically called a clout nail. Short shank with that wide flat head? I put myself through college working as a roofer. This is the type we used to fasten shingles or roofing felt. Nail like that isn’t but about that long,” he said, showing me with his thumb and index finger. “Pull it out, you’ll probably see a ring or screw shank.”

“Weird spot for a nail. How you think it got there?”

“My opinion, you’re looking at an act of vandalism. Somebody had to hammer this little fellow through your sidewall. You must have been parked in a bad neighborhood.”

“I guess I was,” I said. I thought about Ethan appearing between the two cars, his tossing something ever so casually into the front seat of his Toyota.

Ron Swingler said, “You want, I can swap that out for you, as long as your spare’s in good shape.”

“Thanks, but I can talk to someone at the service station. I don’t want to hold you up.”

Gilda spoke up, saying, “He doesn’t mind. Why don’t you let him give you a hand?”

“It won’t take fifteen minutes. Probably less,” he said.

I thought about it briefly. These were good people and I suspected the more I protested, the more they’d insist. Maybe their kindness would offset Ethan’s malevolence to some extent. “Actually, I could use the help if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Why don’t you and Gilda wait in the RV and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

Which is what we did. Their motor home was parked one aisle behind the one I was in. Gilda unlocked the door to the RV and stepped in ahead of me, then turned back and held open the door.

“You want coffee?”

“I’m fine. I’m hoping to get home without making another stop. Coffee would go right through me,” I said.