At the end of the last night shift before Thanksgiving in 1975, Hector Fritch worked up the line ten car lengths so he could be first in line at the South Trim time clock. He carried water-test shields and attached them to the fronts of car bodies so that windshields and other glass could be inspected for leaks. At that point in the process, there was no engine, hood or front fenders on the car. Fritch had to stand on the front of the dolly to snap both attachments because his partner on the passenger side was stuck near the spray booth with other duties.

Fritch caught his breath after the exertion. The molded fiberglass and foam-rubber shields with the steel carry-bar weighed more than forty pounds. The line moved forward at a rate of fifty-seven cars per hour. He had to hang a shield then run for another one as they came dripping on an elevated conveyor from the end of the booth. His clothes were always damp from the shields and humidity from the booth. Now he had worked up a sweat. He hoped management wouldn't suddenly decide to work a few jobs of overtime. Pretty soon, a boisterous mob of Fisher Body workers fell in behind him to wait for the horn. Some carried empty casserole dishes after impromptu work-group feasts. More than a few had been drinking, getting another kind of head start on the four day weekend. Gwen should have the station wagon waiting across the street in the parking lot of Ventura Lounge.

Fritch had caught a ride down to work with another shop-rat from Celeryville named Marty Boulanger. Marty owed him one. That way, Gwen could work her shift at Titus Family Restaurant then pack up the car and the kid and meet him at the end of his shift. Gwen's parents had recently found work on a dairy farm down by Litchfield. A modest farm house near the operation came with the deal. Gwen's father, whose official title was herdsman, had to supervise the milking of 270 head through the Holidays. It was just easier, Fritch believed, for Gwen to meet him at the plant so they could get the three hour drive over with and then sleep in. Even though this was just their second trip down and in the dead of night, it beat sleeping for a few hours at home then hitting the road again way too early. It was also a difference of some fifty miles closer this way.

Hector rang his time-card when the shift klaxon sounded. Sprinting feet pounded and splashed all around him as he dashed out the gate. A cold drizzle was falling. Plenty of workers headed straight into Ventura Lounge for last call rather than the company parking-lot. Impatient traffic escaped in three directions. Amber parking lamps gleamed where other waiting spouses were backed into the bar's parking-lot.

"Shhh. Don't slam," Gwen whispered as Fritch clambered in on the driver's side. "He's been fired up all evening and he finally crashed." Wesley, their five-year-old, sprawled, mouth open, in the backseat. His nest was fashioned with three pillows, a baby quilt, and the remains of a take-out from the restaurant. Gwen reached over the seat to salvage a half-empty orange drink and a few surviving French fries in their cardboard sleeve.

"Any trouble finding the place?" Fritch put the big Mercury in gear. He eased over the low curb and into the street, not waiting for the line of departing cars to move. Someone let him in while giving him the finger.

"Besides that it faces on two streets and has four employee gates? No. There sure are a lot of bars. You guys could get in trouble."

"Some do."

"And this dive could use a bigger sign. A guy came out questioning everybody that was trying to park here. He had a clipboard."

"That woulda been Arnie, the owner," Fritch said. "He was my first committee- man when I hired in. He took a piece-of-the-rock, as they say. Made sweetheart deals on a bunch of grievances during the last contract talks. Then he retired. I'm enough of a lunch regular and it was just for tonight."

"Yeah. I told him our name and he moved on."

Fritch worked their way through the city streets and stoplights until they reached Route 59. They headed west to get to U.S. 23. Bars along the way through Oakland county appeared to be very busy near closing time. "College kids are home for Thanksgiving," he said wistfully.

"Awww, sweetie. I'm so sorry," Gwen cooed. "You get to go too, at Company expense. And you already have a home."

"Maybe I wish we were going there right now."

Gwen frowned in the dashboard lights. "Bullshit, babe. When you get started drinking with Stan and Delbert, I'll feel like the outsider."

Stan and Delbert were Gwen's younger brothers who still lived with her parents. They had been taken on at the same dairy farm. Delbert was signed up to leave soon for basic training in the Navy.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll try not to ignore you. But they're usually buying. And your Mom'll put about ten pounds on me."

"Well, you can always just walk away from the table after three helpings. No one holds a gun to your head." Gwen lifted a thermos off the floor and poured the cap half full of steaming coffee. She guided it into Fritch's hand.

The traffic on Route 59 thinned out by the time they turned south. He planned to pick up the Interstate near Ann Arbor which headed west again. Gwen kept the FM radio playing with the volume down. She blew smoke toward a small gap in the door-glass he had rolled down. "Tell me when you need me to drive."

"I'm pretty wired for now. Anyway, I wake right up when you drive. Sorry."

"Fine."

They listened to music and the soft, condescending voice of the disc jockey until they'd made it nearly to Jackson. Middle-of-the-night truck traffic between Detroit and Chicago was swelled by families going 'over the river and through the woods.' Fritch wondered how many in this parade were traveling after a night shift somewhere and how many were actually early risers. Driving rain didn't seem to slow anyone much. He turned the wiper interval up all the way, grateful that this wasn't snow.

"Dude wants us to know he's hip and we're not."

"He talks so low. He's making me sleepy."

After Fritch found the right exit to head south for Litchfield, Gwen put the map back into the glove compartment. She wedged her head into a pillow against the door. The secondary roads were nearly deserted. They passed the intersection leading to Albion. There was a small, private college there. Fritch doubted if any shop-rats used their tuition assistance at Albion. "Oh, hey," he looked over to see if Gwen was still awake. "Did that old guy come in tonight or did he go home?"

Gwen sighed. "Who? Paul Steadman? He's not that old. He's just lonely in that crummy motel. And yeah, I think he said he was driving to Indiana somewhere. He didn't order dinner, just coffee to go."

"What does he do again?"

"Some kind of geological survey. They're looking for gas and oil deposits. He's got two other guys under him."

"He's trying to get you under him," Fritch chuckled. "I've seen those crews parked along the roads ever since the Oil Embargo. They string out a grid of wires and probes then send signal waves into the ground."

Gwen was silent. She played with the radio trying to find something besides country that would come in clearly.

"What? Did I touch a nerve? Did he finally ask you out?"

"You wish. But I'm still not screwing anybody for your entertainment. We've been over all that."

"Was that a 'yes'?"

"It's not a big deal. It was like, just a general invitation. Robin and Dianne and I were already talking about going out to Celeryville Lanes for a drink next Friday after work. He just sort of threw in that we should let him know and he'd meet us to buy us a drink. He's just lonely."

"Well, of course he is. With a middle-aged wife three hundred miles away? And a friendly waitress twenty years younger? You can go have a drink with him if you want."

"I'm aware of that. But it'll be if I want."

"Right. Of course. But please explain to me how you'd go about screwing someone for my entertainment if I wasn't even there?"

"I think you like to play with it in your head. You wanta hear everything I ever did with anyone. For your precious mental images. Say, I think there's something wrong with this radio."

"We're just out of range."

"No, babe. It's getting dim. I can't get any volume anywhere."

Just as Fritch looked down at the radio dial, the alternator light came on in front of him. "Awww, crap! Quick, just turn it off!" Their hands touched as he reached down to turn off the defroster and blower. On the steering column, he cut the wipers back to the slowest setting. "Crack your window so we don't fog up."

"What's going on?"

"Fucking alternator must be going bad. Or maybe it's the generator." Fritch turned a knob to kill the dashboard lights altogether. With his foot, he tapped the headlight switch from high beams to dim. Their visibility wasn't too bad. The rain had slackened. "How much farther do we have to go?"

"Eight or ten miles, I think. Maybe. We went through that wide spot called Homer. I'll need the dome light if you want me to look at the map again. Shouldn't we find a phone or something?"

"Well, if we see one. But, look around. I don't think there are any more towns."

Fritch slowed after another mile as the headlights began to fail. Suddenly, a glimmer of other headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. He tried to gauge the closing rate of the other car and wondered how well his own taillights could be seen. He hoped that the other motorist wasn'tone of those homecoming students roaring back to mom and dad's house with a good buzz going.

The car behind them slowed as it caught up. Probably checking them out, maybe recognizing their predicament, Fritch thought. If it was a cop, that might not be the worst thing. Cautiously, the trailing vehicle moved into the other lane to pass. "Hang on. Let's see if we can use this guy for a while."

The driver honked as he completed the pass. Fritch tromped on the accelerator, attempting to keep pace. The station wagon bogged down missing as the timing chain lost its count. The car coughed and lurched, but kept going. Luckily, the overtaking driver did not hurtle away but seemed to slow up to accommodate them. Fritch tried to close up behind without making the situation any more dangerous. His own headlights were now two weak spots on the trunk of the lead car.

"I think we caught a break," Fritch said, after a few more miles of studying the guy's bumper and the yellow dividing lines on the black-top. The Mercury sounded like it was running on about five of its eight cylinders. "Plus this battery isn't that old."

"O.K., see that water tower up there…see the lights?" Gwen hunched forward. "We have to make a left just before we get into Litchfield. Or, we can go on into town. There might be a phone booth."

"But they're what? A mile out of town? I think we can make it."

He could see a village limits sign as they stopped at a three-way crossroads. The motor chugged precariously but kept running. The Samaritan who'd led them made his stop, honked again then crept toward town. Fritch tried to honk back but his own horn bleated like a sick lamb. He muscled through the left turn, the power steering nearly gone.

Now on gravel, each washboard ripple sent thudding shots of water and mud against the floor-pan of the car.

"Can you see anything?" Fritch asked.

"I could see the shoulder, the ditch, whatever it is out there if I could run this window down further."

"Never mind. We don't have enough juice to get it back up. I'm in the middle of the road. I think. My night vision's working."

"Looks like they've left the porch light on, at least," Gwen said as the engine died.

Fritch used the last of the wagon's momentum to get out of the way, rolling as far toward the shoulder as he dared. "If that's even their porch light." Unfamiliar as he was with his in-law's new home, he could not recall any deep ditches. They came to a stop as the car began to tilt ever so slightly on the passenger side. "So near, and yet so far."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Random drops of rain pinged on the roof. These might be falling from a tree for all Fritch knew. It was not the drumming torrent they had dealt with earlier. Fritch tried to see out Gwen's window but it was beaded and opaque with the vapor of their breathing. The temperature must be dropping, Fritch thought. "I guess it coulda been worse."

"How? You won't find anybody to fix this before Friday or Saturday. And I doubt if Dad can even tow it until after dinner, with all those cows to do."

"Well, but maybe he knows somebody. Del and Stan have kept shitty cars running for as long as I've known them."

"I guess that's their calling, " Gwen said flatly. She unbuckled her seat belt. She raised up to peer back at Wesley.

"I meant that we drove a long way, practically blind, through a storm that wasn't snow and now we've got just a short walk left. Looks like less than half-a-mile." Fritch unbuckled his own belt. He gathered the denim work coat that he'd draped over the seat and began to wriggle into it. It smelled of burnt metal, plastics, and lubricants. "I'll hump on down there and wake somebody up. We'll be right back for you."

"Like hell you will," Gwen said, no longer whispering. "We could get rammed in the dark. We're not staying here alone."

"Oh, c'mon. It's gotta be four-thirty in the morning. You're gonna get soaked and muddy. Wes is gonna get wet. Don't you want your clothes and stuff down at the house?"

"I don't care. Figure something out. We're not waiting here."

Fritch shook his head at this tipping point of frustration. He thumped down hard on the steering wheel with both hands. Of course, she wouldn't allow him to keep this simple. The windshield was now completely steamed up. All he could see through it was a glimmer of the distant porch light and a yard light he remembered shining from a pole by one of the out-buildings. "See if there's a rain pancho in a little pouch under the seat."

Gwen groped under her side of the seat.

"There should be a flashlight and a dinky umbrella in the tool compartment, next to the spare tire," he continued. "I can't vouch for the batteries but all I have to do is set every damn suitcase, shoe, and toy out on the ground to get at it."

Gwen held the pancho packet over in front of Fritch's nose. "So? Do it. I get to wear this and I can carry two suitcases."

"Better wake him up, then. If I'm carrying him, maybe he can carry the umbrella."

"There you go. A family adventure."

"Swell. This you want for an adventure," Fritch sighed. "I'll need my toilet kit with my inhaler. I'll wanta shave for dinner."

He swung out, testing the road's surface. His first step raised a splash. The second was merely a sloppy crunch. There seemed to be no standing water at the immediate rear of the station wagon. The luggage would be alright there for a minute. He scratched around in the dark until the key slipped home in the latch. When he raised the tailgate, Wes was leaning into the cargo space.

"We broke down," the boy giggled.

"Well, I'm glad you're having fun. Maybe you can carry me."

"Uh-uh. I'm not awake yet."

Fritch picked out the items they would want in the morning. He placed pairs of shoes and a few toy farm implements on top of the luggage then raised the lid on the tool space. Gwen climbed out after helping Wesley into his shoes and coat. The clear pancho had a hood. She spread her arms. "Am I the angel of storms, or what?" The whole rig covered her suitcase in one hand plus the shaving kit and Wes's duffel bag in the other. She tried to spread her arms.

"Sure." Fritch tested the flashlight in her direction. The beam seemed strong enough to last for the fifteen minutes they'd need it. He popped the umbrella, wrapped the boy's fists around the handle then lifted him easily onto his shoulders. That water-test job might have some conditioning benefits to make up for being wet all the time. He clasped his right arm over Wes's dangling ankles.

Gwen locked the doors and slammed the tailgate. The sound died in the mist. Fritch set out toward the distant farm lights, the flash beam playing over the ruts ahead of him.

"Stay close. I'll try to steer us around the puddles."

When they climbed the back porch steps to the kitchen door, shoes squishing, Gwen's mother had just gotten up to put the bird in the oven. She was taken aback since no car lights had pulled into the yard. She jumped at Gwen's single loud knock at the door then peered out and unlocked. Wes piled into her arms, already blurting his part of the story.

* * *

Fritch might have expected a shallow sleep after five years on night shift. Like a fool, he sipped even more coffee as they tried to unwind around the kitchen table. Gwen's father stumbled out to begin his day in the milking parlor after greeting them all. Gwen's mother bustled about the kitchen. The adrenalin rush of a journey that had turned perilous kept them talking until, finally, words and replies grew drowsily spaced.

The couple was favored with a spare room on the second floor while Wesley would eventually crawl back into bed with his Grandma. The infidelity he had begun to tempt Gwen with flickered a reprise in his mind as they climbed the stairs. Gwen slept in panties, too tired to rummage a nightie from her things. Fritch knew she usually ditched the bra after her shift, but its absence as she undressed piqued his imagination anyway. So, as he drifted into sleep, mental images should have been pleasant rather then disturbing.

With his back to the wall, he spooned up to Gwen in the small bed. He suspected that this was probably the twin bed of her youth, in which he had first made love to her with tractors baling and hay wagons raising dust in the fields and barnyard nearby. He pressed into her backside, but she was already asleep and he lacked the determination to persist. Long minutes later, the three men in his dozing dream were trying to take Wes. Fritch mumbled a warning and lunged, tackling the ringleader. Gwen hit the floor with a scream. Fritch fell, half on top of her, his legs kicking out against the tangled sheet as he sprang.

"What!? What the fuck!?" She shouted.

Gasping, Fritch pushed himself up to minimize any hurt he might have already inflicted. He let her get loose from under him. "It's OK! It's OK!"

"Jesus Christ! Are you nuts?!"

"I…I started to have a dream." Fritch sat back up on the bed. "You better sleep on the inside."

"What was it about? Football?" Gwen stood slowly. She arched her back and flexed her knee then crawled around him. Now she faced the wall. She rearranged the covers.

"Some guys were taking Wes. And, plus, then my leg spazzed out. I'll tell you about it in the morning."

"I'm looking forward to that," Gwen said. "Try not to dream about hockey or wrestling, OK?"

Fritch pulled his share of the sheet and quilt over himself. One foot still hung out, tapping time in the chilly room to the caffeine hum in his brain. He saw the face of the kidnapper as he tried to keep his eyes closed. He'd never actually seen that Paul Steadman from Indiana, but the guy did have two other men in his crew. "At least we're all here," Fritch mumbled.

Gwen's slow breathing had turned to a soft snore.