The glass turned opaque with slimy, green foam. Turning on the wipers only smeared the gunk around and made things worse.
I strayed off the passing lane onto the rumble strip. I jerked the wheel right and nearly clipped a van. A car whizzed by, its horn bellowing.
I slammed on the brakes. My tires hopped a curb. I skidded to a halt on a patch of sand and scrubby grass. Heart thumping, I sat there, my hands still gripping the wheel.
No biggie, it was just a little lost coolant, nothing mechanical. Maybe a hose had popped off. I could clamp it back on, refill the radiator and be on my way.
I stepped out of the truck. Thunderheads billowed along the horizon, piling up against the low hills. A hot and swirly wind blew up from the south.
I hadn’t paid attention to the signs, but figured I must be pretty close to the North Carolina border. It looked at first like I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but pine and scrub. But there was an exit just ahead, and through the trees a surface road ran parallel to the highway. Just up a little ways there was a house and a barn.
I popped open the hood to reveal a steaming, sopping mess. The upper radiator hose had blown, tearing right through an embolism-like bulge below the clamp. Hot antifreeze sputtered out of the hole like a spent geyser.
I undid both clamps with the screwdriver on my Swiss Army knife, wrapped a rag around it and yanked off the mass of searing rubber, passing it from hand to hand like a hot potato. I threw it down on the sand to cool.
I considered using the phone Jared had given me to call for a tow, but he had been adamant about me not using it for anything but direct communications with him. And there was no sense in calling him yet. It wasn’t as if drug cartels offered 24-hour roadside assistance. Why freak him out? I had plenty of time to set things right and get back on the road.
I wrapped the rag back around the destroyed hose and tucked it under my arm. With that exit just ahead, there was a likely a town nearby. Surely there would be a garage or parts store where I could pick up a replacement hose. Ford F150s were probably as common around these parts as pine trees.
I cut through the trees and down a slope to the surface road. As I got close, I could see that the house I was heading for was in horrible shape, with shutters dangling off their hinges and the paint all peeling. The shades were drawn. It didn’t look like anyone lived there, though the fields behind it were plowed and planted with hip-high corn.
On a whim, I walked up the front walk and rang the doorbell. I heard nothing but the wind and some distant thunder. I was about to walk away when the door swung open and a hunched old woman in a tattered sweater appeared, her eyes boring in like lances. She looked to be about ninety.
“Brian ain’t home,” she shouted.
“Who? Um, no ma’am, I’m not looking for Brian. You see, my car broke down on—”
“He ain’t here. But he’ll be comin’ home for supper. Come back around five, then you can talk to him.”
“Ma’am, you wouldn’t know of auto parts stores nearby?”
“Heh?” She screwed her face at me like I had said something preposterous about otters.
“You know, like a garage?”
“Ask Brian when he comes. He’ll know what to tell ya.”
“Okay.” Well, thanks. You have a good day.”
She nodded and attempted a smile, but it turned into more of a scowl. She slammed the door and locked it.
I continued down the road, crossing over a culvert with a muddy creek running through it. An empty two liter Pepsi bottle bobbed in an eddy. I scrambled down and tucked it under a bush so it wouldn’t float away. This would be my source of coolant once I got my new hose. Why waste ten bucks on anti-freeze? Water would do. It was freaking July.
