Ding-ding rang the little bell fastened to the front door of the old country service station. The young, wiry attendant behind the counter barely heard it over the radio newscast and the pouring rain. He turned his attention from the shortwave radio long enough to notice the tall, middle-aged man dressed in a dark overcoat and fedora. The man was soaked and the bottom of his coat, muddied. The faces of both men looked pallid under the yellowed fluorescent ceiling lights.

“Looks’ike someone left the house without checkin this eve’s weather report. Where's your umbrella, mister?” the attendant said as he smoothed his thinning, black hair with an oily pocket rag, then returned his attention to the radio. “Think we got slickers f’sale in the corner over yonder, just past the little boys’ room.” He turned back to the radio and pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Don't sell too many on account it never rains here. Matter'fact I don't reckon I ever sold a solitary one…”

Mister fedora kicked his feet on the front door mat and cursed at the state of his once-pristine Oxfords. “I swear I packed one with me in the car.” He looked back up. “Back there, you say?”

“Huh?”

“Raincoats.”

“Past the little boys’ room,” the attendant said without turning around.

On his way to the rear corner of the station Mister fedora passed a young blond woman leading a boy wearing blue airplane-print pajamas. They were on their way from the restroom, and both looked worse for wear.

Mister fedora forced a smile and tilted the brim of his hat as they passed. “Evening, ma’am. Howdy, chief.”

“Good evening to you, too, if you can call it that without sounding crazy,” the woman said in passing. The boy buried his face in the long, damp pleats of his mother’s green skirt as he trailed behind her. After the man passed she pulled a compact from her purse and gasped at the wan reflection. She produced a comb and fussed with her thick, tangled bob.

“Mommy not this way. We hafta go,” the boy pleaded as he poked his finger to the rear of the service station.

“Not now, Tommy,” the woman said as she put away the comb and patted her hair. “Looks like I’m stuck with this bird’s nest until we get to a motel...”

Mister fedora made his way back to the front counter and slapped a neatly folded raincoat next to the cash register. “I’ll take a pack of Lucky Strike when you get a moment,” he said to the back of the attendant’s damp work shirt. Red embroidered script swept across the shirt’s gray fabric: Service & Towing.

Mister fedora cleared his throat, then lifted his Wittnauer Swiss wristwatch into view. Its hands, frozen in the 9 o’clock position, mocked him through the cracked glass. “Damn! Must’ve knocked it on the car door. Just had that damned car washed, too. My lucky night.”

He raised the watch to his ear, looked at it, then held it against his ear as he glanced at the greasy wall clock mounted next to a Jet away to Cancun 1964 photo calendar. The clock showed 10:30 p.m. “Now, how could this have happened an hour and a half ago…”

He reached across the counter and tugged the other man’s sleeve. “Lucky Strike, fella. And a book of matches.”

The attendant flinched and swiveled on his stool. “Oh! Hey, yeah, ya'll set there? Sorry bout that, mister. News program had me by the ears.” The keys on the old cash register clinked. “Let's call it two samoleans even.”

Mister fedora rummaged through his pockets for cash. “Is there a liquor store north of here?”

“Booze?”

“Yeah, Booze. B-O-O-Z-E.

“No, sir. Not nowhere near, s’far as I know. Ain't my slice-o-pie.” The attendant turned to look outside and leaned heavily on the counter with his forearm. His other arm floated up lazily like the needle of a sleepy compass, drawing invisible lines with his finger. “Course, if you keep on yon highway clear up to Emory or so, reckon you might find somethin to wet your whistle. Feller came down this way not four days ago on a antique motorbike. Green 4-stroke like’n the army. Nother feller slumped over in a sidecar musta been sailin three sheets to the wind. I tell you, if I had a dime for ever'time—”

“Okay, got it. No liquor store.”

The attendant straightened and gave the other man a look as if noticing him for the first time. “Say, you ain't thinkin of venturin back out there, are you? Newsman says might be cats-n-dogs all night.”

“The devil I’m not. I’ve got to be in St. Louis by tomorrow. I’m meeting a big client up there,” Mister fedora said, noticing the urgent voice on the radio broadcast for the first time. “Hey, what did he just say about a road being closed? Turn that up, will you.”

“Sure thing, mister. Sounds like a right serious pileup not far down yon highway. Happened round nine in the pm this eve.”

The newsman on the radio spoke in spurts, relaying updates as they came in, “…multiple vehicle pileup on northbound Highway 19…just outside Jefferson County…two sedans partially submerged in flooded embankment…wreckage from a…a pickup truck blocking northbound lane…occupants of vehicles not yet identified…waiting on emergency personnel to arrive on scene…coming from neighboring counties…more updates on this harrowing incident as we—”

“Oh, how dreadful! Those poor, poor people,” the woman said from beside the shelf with the toys. “I wasn’t expecting rain like this when we left the house this morning. I thought I’d be able to drive through the night until Tommy and I reached Little Rock.”

“Nobody spectin rain like this. Not in a hunerd years,” the attendant called back. “One of them freak-o-nature weather phenomenas, like the kind in a National Geographic.”

“My brother was kind enough to invite us to stay with him for a few days. Tommy hasn’t seen his uncle in ages,” the woman said, “but by the looks of it, the roads may be closed tomorrow if this horrid rain doesn’t stop soon.” She placed her hands on the boy’s shoulders and leaned down to kiss his sandy blond hair—more for her own reassurance than for his. She hesitated. “Tommy, you only have on one shoe and sock…”

The boy’s fists bulged with jacks and small rubber balls. He looked down at his dirty bare foot and wiggled his toes.

“What happened to your shoe and sock, Tommy?”

The boy shrugged, and in a high voice said, “It comed off. Felled right off!”

“I know they came off, Tommy. How?”

“I losted it. The car, it goed sideways, member? They felled off in the water, member mommy?

Then the man in the rain...”

"What man?" The woman glanced out into the storm, then back at her son. "You mean you saw the nice attendant who let us in earlier—"

“Beautiful country up there’n Little Rock, ma'am. Been thinkin of venturin up there myself for a spell,” the attendant said, still focused on the radio. “Your boy’s shoe musta fallen off as you were runnin him inside the store outa the rain. As for the missin sock…well, ma'am…boys'll be boys, huh.” He swiveled on his stool to face the boy and winked. “Heck if a day didn't go by that I had socks on both my feet when I was knee high to a ladybug.”

“But he and I were standing outside under the light of the canopy, waiting for you to unlock the front door. Don’t you remember?” The woman’s brow furrowed, “I heard your keys jingling as you ran up behind us through the rain. I assumed you were just getting here, yourself.”

“You couldn’t have taken the night off from work on account of the storm?” Mister fedora said to the attendant. “Seems like someone else left home without checking the evening weather report.”

“Man’s gotta have principals,” the attendant said with a thumb pointed toward the front door. “Folks’r dependin on me havin that ol gas pump out yonder serviceable. There ain't another'n for miles in neither direction. Folks’ luck bound to run out sooner than later, an that ol pump keeps the dice rollin, so to speak.”

“Am I going crazy,” the woman said to the attendant, “or did you not get here after us to unlock the door?”

“Well, you see…I was…” the attendant faltered as he studied the wall clock, which showed 10:40 p.m., “well, I was…now wait a durn minute...” He scratched the bald spot on the crown of his head and wrinkled his brow. “I been inside this here station since…well, since my shift started at five-a-clock this eve.” He squinted down at his wristwatch to validate his claim. His lips curled in concentration, revealing a row of large teeth speckled with spit tobacco. “Well, don't that take the pie. Durn wristclock died at nine pm. I always wind her last thing afore turnin in to bed.” He tapped his temple and winked. “That way, my brain’s shy one less item on its mornin to-do list.”

Mister fedora turned to face the tall, hazy windows along the front wall while he absently searched his pockets again. He could see to the far edge of the lighted canopy covering the gas pump, but beyond that, nothing except the shiny black sheets of rain. He drifted into that distant world of darkness.

“Lost somethin, mister?” the attendant said, “Looks like you seen your own ghost out’n that squall.”

Mister fedora turned back around to face the others, “It’s not like me to misplace things, but it seems I’ve lost both my wallet and my keys.” He walked to the counter, grabbed the pack of Lucky Strike and the book of matches, and sat down on a crate of motor oil near the front of the room.

“Not really sure what’s going on here…” he said as he lit a match. A cigarette bobbed between his lips as he spoke, “but thing’s aren’t adding up right now.” He touched the end of the cigarette with the flame and inhaled. The tip crackled and came to life with an orange glow.

The room was stifling. The only sounds were the scattering of jacks on the hard linoleum floor—and the rain. A fluorescent bulb flickered dimly overhead in a mockery of distant lightning.

Mister fedora considered the veil of smoke from his cigarette, trying to connect pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that wouldn’t lock together.

The attendant regarded the beach photo on his wall calendar and wished himself there.

The woman contemplated her disheveled appearance and how she could have consciously left the house in such a state.

The boy sat patiently on the floor among his jacks and smiled at something in the rain.

The crackling voice of the newsman brought them all back to the present, “…emergency personnel arrived on scene…at least…two additional vehicles involved…one tow truck…waiting on news from emergency—”

“Well, what’n the fourth of July!” the attendant said as he shot up from his stool and scurried to the edge of the counter that faced the front window. “All this hullabaloo got me so riled I jus now noticed, the ol tow truck…she’s missin. Vanished! I always park’r out front under the canopy there.” He raised his right hand. “I'd swear on a holy bible that the Big Man Almighty’s rollin snake eyes with us tonigh—”

“Tommy!” the woman screamed as her son bolted toward the front door. He made it just beyond the threshold before Mister fedora sprang to life and caught him by the scruff of his pajamas.

“Whoa there, chief! Got a midnight show to catch?” Mister fedora pulled the boy inside.

“Tommy!” The woman rushed to her son and knelt in front of him, seizing him by the upper arms. “Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me! What’s gotten into you, Tommy? It’s dangerous out there. You’ll catch your death of cold, and who knows what else.”

“Lemme go lemme go!” The boy twisted in her grip. “He told me to hafta go…he said when the rain comed—”

“Who did, Tommy? Who told you to go out there,” the woman said, turning his chin to face her, "the man in the rain?"

The boy stopped squirming and held his mother’s wide-eyed gaze. He smiled.

Mister fedora stood facing the front windows. “Do any of you remember how you got here?” he asked as he contemplated the darkness outside. He lit a cigarette. “Anyone?”

The woman stood. “Let me see…I had a full tank of gas, so I thought I’d drive through the night until we reached my brother’s house, that is, until that awful rain started. So, we stopped in here to wait it out.”

“Sure, but do you recall the period of time from when the rain started until you walked through that front door?” The man continued to stare out the window, his gaze a hundred miles away. “Where is your car? Look out there. Where are any of them? This young fella’s missing a tow truck. I drove here in a 1961 Cadillac Fleetwood and I sure as hell don’t recall pulling into this gas station, much less where I parked.”

The woman ambled over to the front windows. “I was driving up the highway with Tommy asleep in the back seat, and then the whole sky opened up. Then…well, and then I—

“And then you what?”

“Let me think…and then I—”

“And then you were suddenly and mysteriously here. You don’t have the foggiest recollection of that missing time, do you? Almost as if you may have blacked out behind the wheel.”

The woman turned sharply to Mister fedora. “Now you look here, Mister Man! What kind of game are you trying to play with us? Now you have me questioning my own sanity!”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Miss. I need to figure out how we all got here. If we put our heads together a logical explanation is bound to—“

“Who died and put you in charge?”

“Lady, the quicker you face reality the better our chances are of escaping our current dilemma. I, for one, don’t plan on wasting the rest of my night in this podunk gas station.”

”Oh! You insufferable lug! Why, I have a mind to—”

“Ma’am, sorry to innerrupt,” the attendant said. “think you folks should hear this.”

The radio crackled, “…I repeat, we have identification on several vehicles involved…Cadillac Fleetwood, plate number EF 6462…Chevy pickup, TX 9012…Chevy Impala—“

“Didn't you say you drove here in a Caddy Fleetwood, mister?” the attendant said without looking up.

“Yeah,” Mister fedora said as he approached the counter, “plate number EF 6462…”

An arm reached over the attendant’s shoulder and the radio snapped off. “I think we’ve heard enough,” Mister fedora said.

The woman knelt in front of her son and pulled him close. The boy stared over her shoulder into the rain as she hugged him, then he stiffened.

“Mommy he’s here look ever'body Rainy Man’s coming!” the boy trilled, squirming to free himself. “Rainy Man said he come and he keeped his promise!”

The four of them stared into the storm—past their own disembodied reflections, past the lighted canopy, to the farthest limit of their vision. Within that boundary of darkness, murky black shapes mingled between lines of shimmering raindrops. The dark figures skulked aimlessly along the narrow edge of existence until a brief gale dispersed them into the night. A spattering of rain against the front windows released the four from their trance.

The attendant shuffled from behind the counter, squinting into the storm. “Well, I’ll be…there sure’s heck somethin wormin round out there. Headin this way too.”

A solitary gray figure drifted through the blackness. It became more distinct as it approached. The rain parted wherever it moved.

“It is a man…,” the woman looked at her son quizzically, “how could you have possibly known…”

The man in the rain reached the far edge of the concrete station canopy. He walked with long strides up to the front door. He carried his tall, slender form with exquisite distinction. Dark features contrasted with his white, tailored three-piece linen suit. A wide smile revealed a row of perfect teeth that gleamed above the heavy knot of a black necktie.

Ding-ding rang the little bell as the distinguished man stepped into the old country service station. He was bone dry, without a speck of mud on his white dress shoes or imperfection in the gray temples of his contoured hair. He stood on the front door mat with his hands clasped in front of him, looking for all the world like an usher from a time forgotten. He granted a smile to each person in turn, letting the door shut behind him.

“Splendid! Excellent!” the distinguished man said in a well-articulated Castilian accent. “I am pleased that you are all present and accounted for. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Mommy I telled you he was coming didnt I!” the boy cheered, finally escaping his mother’s arms.

“Tommy!” the woman called out as she snatched her son’s hand, “you know better than to approach a stranger.” Her eyebrows rumpled as she clung to her son.

“I’m a man of my word, am I not, Tommy,” the distinguished man beamed. “Return to your mother, young man.” Then to the woman he said, “Madam, your son and I have already been acquainted; therefore, ‘stranger’ no longer applies. And now that I have met the remainder of you—”

“What’s this all about?” Mister fedora demanded. “You waltz in here out of that torrent without so much as a single hair out of place, grinning like you just won a Vegas jackpot. You can do us all a favor and skip to the point, pal. Let’s start with your name.”

The distinguished man fidgeted his fingers and looked up at the stained ceiling tiles, then chuckled. “I know, you may call me Rainy Man, as Tommy has so aptly suggested.” He paused just long enough to allow the corners of his mouth to drop. “I know you must be upset by what has transpired. It wasn’t by chance that each of you found your way to this place. The four of you have been chosen to take the next steps in a much grander scheme. Your current obligations have been fulfilled, and now your gifts are needed elsewhere.”

“Ha! That’s quite a yarn, ‘Rainy Man’,” Mister fedora said as he lit a cigarette. “You expect us to believe that bologna you’re shoveling?”

“Sounds to me like he’s sayin—and lemme get this crystaline clear—that we’ve…” the attendant swallowed a lump that had risen in his throat, “passed on?”

“An unfortunate byproduct of the process, I will admit,” the distinguished man said, “but it’s currently the method that bears the best results. Time and experience will undoubtedly streamline any future proceedings. But for now…” he spread his hands wide, “this is how it’s done.”

“But what about the others who were in the accident,” the woman said, “the ones who didn’t make it here? What happened to those poor people?”

The distinguished man frowned. “The others, I’m afraid, did not meet the required standards, as it were. Their next steps are not our concern.”

“But how can you just leave them folks out there in that mess-a-cars?” the attendant said. “For all we know they mighta been good decent folks carryin no ill intent.” He shook his head. “Jus don't seem right to me.”

“It’s not my decision to make, sir; I’m simply the porter,” the distinguished man said. “Those who didn’t arrive here will be accommodated by other means, I’m sure. We are only interested in the four of you.”

"Who's 'we'?" Mister fedora said. "Tell your employer that we’re not interested."

“I’m afraid their decision has already been made for you. Again, sir, I am merely your host for this evening."

“But Tommy…” the woman said through misty eyes, “he’s just a little boy. What gives you the right to take him away, to rob him of his future? To take him away from me!”

“If you could only see this young man as I do,” the distinguished man said, his smile returning, “Tommy is gifted, madam, as all children are. His eyes were open to everything that occurred during the incident on the highway. He tried to tell you, if you had only listened.” He reached out and rustled the boy’s unkempt hair. “You truly are a gift, child.” The boy squished up his face and giggled.

“Will we be together, Tommy and I, after we…I mean…after what comes next? Oh God, I’m not ready for this!”

“All will be as it should. The child will need someone to guide him. His next step will be the most impactful of all of you.”

The boy beamed at the distinguished man, then looked up at his mother and patted her hand, “It's okay mommy. We gonna goed somewhere safe. Rainy Man telled me already bout it. Don't be scared mommy.” Then he raised himself as tall and straight as he could, given his one shoeless foot. “Were all ready and set, Mister Rainy Man!”

The distinguished man’s head tilted back with bright laughter, and he clapped his hands together loudly. “Splendid! Then let us be off!”

The woman held her son’s warm, reassuring hand, and her demeanor softened. Her eyes fell upon him with new-found wonder.

“Well, I reckon we ain't got muchuva choice in the matter,” the attendant said as he hiked up his dungarees. “Don't know bout the rest of these fine folks but I been lookin for a change of scenery myself. Where'll we be off to?”

“Wherever you are needed will be your destination,” the distinguished man said.

“So, you want us to simply amble on back out into the rain and ride off into the sunset, huh,” Mister fedora said, “to live happily ever after, singing kumbaya.”

“We don’t run a revolving-door operation, I assure you, sir; we’ll be exiting by another way—one which leads to more comfortable accommodations,” the distinguished man said. “Follow me, please.” He gestured with his chin and began walking past the others with long, purposeful strides. His shoes made no sound against the old linoleum. He halted next to the rear exit door of the service station, turned on his heel, and assumed an usherly posture.

The door opened outward of its own accord, flooding the room with a soft white light. The door was lost from sight in the glow as if the doorway held a pane of frosted glass in front of the sun. The others drifted in awe toward the light like hypnotized moths.

The distinguished man spread an arm gracefully out to the side like the wing of an otherworldly white crane, ushering the others forth. “Lady, gentlemen…after you.”

The boy gasped as he beheld the wonders within the light. He hopped and pointed and tugged at his mother’s hand. The woman smiled, trusting in his innocent wisdom, and nodded approvingly. The boy shrilled and waved goodbye to the distinguished man as he shepherded his mother through the doorway. Their dark silhouettes, framed in white, were quickly swallowed by the light until they were gone.

The attendant tucked in a loose shirt tail as he watched the boy and the woman melt into the radiance. He stepped to the edge of the threshold as if he were about to receive a diploma, turned to the distinguished man and shook his hand vigorously. “My guts’r tellin me you're the trustin type.” He looked the other man up and down before releasing his hand. “Anyhow, s’been a real pleasure makin your acquaintance, Mister Rainy Man.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir.” the distinguished man nodded with a smile. “I hope your next step is without challenge.”

The attendant gingerly dipped the toe of his shoe into the light until he deemed the way safe for travel. He took a step backward, then sprang with his arms outstretched into the void.

Mister fedora crossed his arms as the attendant took his leap of faith. He locked eyes with the distinguished man, studying his mannerisms. The sound of the rain pummeling the roof of the station filled the empty space between the two remaining men.

“Sir, I would be remiss in not mentioning that your time is limited,” the distinguished man finally said. “This exit will be closing shortly.”

Mister fedora raised one corner of his mouth. His head lowered and swayed from side to side.

“Sir,” The distinguished man’s brow furrowed. “may I remind you—”

“I’m not buying your snake oil.”

“Your time here is waning. I strenuously suggest—”

“I smell ‘con man’ all over you; I’ve dealt with my fair share over the years.” Mister fedora waved his hand at the exit door. “It’s an impressive setup, I’ll give you that much. But I’m not falling for your smoke-and-mirror parlor tricks.” He thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets and backed away from the threshold. “You may have duped a toddler, a naive girl, and a country bumpkin, but I wasn’t born yesterday, pal.” He turned on his heel and ambled toward the front of the station, lighting a cigarette on the way.

The distinguished man drew a pocket watch from his vest, studied it, then returned it thoughtfully. His face remained calm and expressionless. He resumed his usherly posture, cleared his throat, then spoke matter-of-factly, “I regretfully inform you, sir, that your time has expired.” And with a single, silent step the man merged into the rectangle of white light and vanished forever.

The latch on the door clanged shut, returning the room to its former sickly yellow. Outside, the weather changed. The deluge abated to a soundless mist that drifted down from an unseen sky. From the earth raised a heavy veil of dark gray fog. The din of rain on the station’s roof ceased, leaving only the hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead.

Mister fedora faced the tall windows at the front of the station, smoking. He exhaled leisurely. Thick eddies of burned tobacco swirled in front of the glass, altering his reflection to that of a ghost.

“Ah, what the hell…” He flicked the butt and bolted to the rear of the station. A frantic hand wrenched the knob, and the exit door groaned. Curtains of fog, made sickly by the pale, bare porch bulb, billowed as the door swung outward into the night. No soothing white light, no fellow travelers urging him through—only the soggy ground, and darkness beyond. Even the chirps and croaks of the scrubland fauna had been washed away. He paused, listening.

“Hello?…” [Silence]

“Hey!…” [Silence]

He yanked the door shut and pounded it with a fist. “The devil with them! Every damned one of them!”

He dashed to the front counter and snapped on the radio. [Static] Unsteady fingers spun the tuning knob back and forth across the dial. [Static]

“Quite the shell game you’re playing here, ‘Rainy Man’,” he chuckled sarcastically. He stepped from behind the counter and pivoted in a circle, calling into the empty space, “Okay, you fooled me, jack! Time to step out from behind the curtain!” He paused for a reply he knew would never come.

The man’s fidgety hands drew the pack of Lucky Strike from his coat pocket. He plucked out one of the cigarettes with his teeth. Before returning the pack, he regarded the name on the label and snorted at the irony. He lit the stick and paced the wall of windows lining the front of the station while his mind groped for the missing pieces of an impossible jigsaw puzzle. He paused on the muddy front door mat as his cigarette burned down to the filter.

Ding-ding rang the little bell as the man in the fedora stepped outside. The air was wet and gauzy, and clung like a heavy film. The carport was vacant save for the gas pump and a pillar of used tires stacked against the wall. Everything else had been washed away. The door closed behind him with a sharp click. He turned around to find the interior lights had turned off. The gray reflection in the glass reached for the doorknob, then spun around.

It took eight paces over flooded concrete to reach the far edge of the canopy overhang. Another twelve or so paces of soggy ground laid between Mister fedora and the two-lane blacktop that tracked through the gloom. He looked in the direction from which he had traveled earlier that evening. From far down the highway an orb of yellow light struggled to exist.

An intense pain curled his right hand into a fist. He splayed his fingers and shook them out. Under the harsh fluorescent canopy light, a dark purple stain spread across the back of his hand, around the palm, and down the fingers. It began to swell. “When the devil did that happen…” He rolled up his coat sleeve. The bruise continued up his arm, beneath the coat.

The words of the distinguished man perpetrated his mind, “Your time here is waning…”

He surveyed the front of the deserted service station. “Any place is better than here,” he muttered as he flipped up his neck collar and trudged out into the mist.

Mister fedora sloshed along the muddy blacktop toward the glowing yellow orb. The fog crept into his body and constricted his breath; his lungs bellowed under the weight. A shallow current of muddy water urged him on to his destination.

He glanced back at the fading yellow orb of the service station. Soon he was just another dead thing in a sea of night, drifting from one island of light to another—one of those skulking black figures dispersed by a gale.

The whole length of his swollen arm throbbed and bulged against the inside of his sleeve. In the darkness, a piece of flotsam caused him to stumble, and he fell onto his bad arm. He imagined his puffy stump of a hand bursting and spilling his life onto the soggy ground.

He rose carefully, disoriented and swooning from pain. The fedora had fallen off his head, having been claimed by the fog, and his hair clung to his face. The way forward was now pitch black; the glowing yellow beacon had been extinguished.

He spun in a tight circle. Two glowing orbs whirled into view, both a sickly yellow and on opposite sides of him. Both looked identical and impossibly out of reach. He turned frantically from one to the other, hoping to recognize the one that beckoned salvation.

“I regretfully inform you, sir, that your time has expired,” the rueful words echoed in his mind.

“Odds are fifty-fifty,” he said aloud. “My good arm for a coin…”

Then he remembered the two dimes in his car’s ash tray leftover from the car wash down in Crockett earlier that day. He also remembered the slow river of mud lapping at his feet. Clutching his bad arm he set off in the direction dictated by the current.

As he got closer the glowing orb began to sharpen. He could just make out a streetlamp affixed to the top of a tilted telephone pole. It leaned precariously, governing over an orgy of hulking steel monsters that loitered under its yellow eye.

Despite the streetlamp’s guidance, walking without stumbling had become nearly impossible. Not only was there an increase in road debris, but his left foot tried desperately to escape its patent leather prison as the shoe grew tighter with each misstep. Eventually, pain prevailed and the foot was set free. In the yellow light it resembled raw liver, and it bent at odd angles. The skin had split and the swollen tissue underneath bled. The man hobbled onward.

A chaotic mass of twisted vehicles littered the area surrounding the streetlamp. The tail end of a sedan punctured the surface of the flooded embankment. One of its brake lights illuminated like the red eye of a drowned robot. A blue Chevy Impala mounted the telephone pole and died with its front wheels wrapped in an embrace. An upside-down tow truck blocked the north-bound lane of the road. It lounged menacingly atop the front end of a green Cadillac Fleetwood. Painted along its rear panel in red lettering read Service & Towing. The tow boom with its massive steel hook groaned under the strain of crooked metal.

An invisible vise gripped the man’s ribcage, and breathing became a luxury. Impulsively, his good hand fumbled through his coat for the last of the cigarettes, but instead found a mass of soggy white pulp wrapped in cellophane—his only respite stolen by the penetrating mist.

He threw back his head, spitting a torrent of curses from behind clenched teeth. He cursed the rain and the fog; he cursed the foreign man’s irritating prophecies; he cursed the mouthy blond and her wayward child; the devil-may-care country pumpkin; his big-nosed client in St. Louis for jewing him out of a healthy profit; and, finally, the team of flunkies who somehow overlooked the one glaring flaw in the otherwise angelic design of America-made cigarette packaging.

After a time, he regained what strength and composure he could muster and rose unsteadily to his feet.

The tow truck settled its bulk farther down onto the Cadillac, which moaned mechanically. The Cadillac's driver-side door yawned, and a gentleman’s hat flopped onto the blacktop. It rolled away from the wreckage and came to rest at the man’s feet. The man stared at it through glazed eyes while he groped his pockets for cigarettes he forgot were no longer there.

Balancing on his one good leg, he bent over to pick up the fedora. Something burst loudly inside his gut and he staggered forward. The bones of his mangled foot scraped along the graveled blacktop as he fought to remain conscious. Another misstep, and the long bone in his thigh snapped.

The man twisted, lurching sideways through the open door of his car and onto the slippery vinyl bench seat. He slid to the passenger side where his head cracked against the polished steel door handle. The driver-side door shut as the car’s weight shifted.

The tow truck with its black clawed hook groaned, and the roof of the Cadillac buckled inward.

Two round silver eyes glared menacingly from the passenger door’s ash tray like those of a spiteful serpent. “Whaddayaknow, the old country bumpkin was right after all,” the man rasped, ”snake eyes!” A monstrous mechanical toad croaked from somewhere above, kruk…kruk…

kruk…kruuuuuuu… He craned his head for a view through the empty windshield frame. He read the words to himself—Service & Towing.

The blue Impala lost its grip on the telephone pole and rolled off onto its back, smashing against the tow truck’s exposed undercarriage. The tow boom wrenched from its bolted mooring, the steel cable whipped through the fog, and the massive, clawed hook was set free. It blotted out the hazy yellow orb of the streetlamp as it penetrated the Cadillac’s passenger compartment.

Somewhere, from far away, irritating, spiteful words wormed their way through the screeching avalanche of metal and glass to haunt the dead man’s mind forever, “I regretfully inform you, sir, that your time has expired—”