“You leaving town?” the tow-truck operator asked while he lifted Phillipa’s Ford Falcon.
Wesley tugged on her fingers, rolling a pebble in his cheek he had picked up on the road’s shoulder where they had broken down, outside of Newbury, Tennessee in February of 1969. She had stacked the Falcon with what had been left of her belongings, stuff needed for Wesley’s care, and the rest she gave to the girl next door. Leaving Clayton’s crap on the curb, what he hadn’t come back for, for the trash-men to divvy up.
“I’ll take you to my shop. Motel ain’t much, but it’s a roof,” he nodded,” down the road a ways. From the smell looks like the transmission is toast,” he said. “Fran’s the name, by the way.”
“Phil.” She took his greasy hand, adopting a new approach other than the way Clayton would have handled a greasy mechanic’s paw. “Foreshaw,” she said, switching back to her maiden name.
“That your baby?”
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