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I lifted thehood to take a look at the engine even though I know nothing about cars. Ihad hopes that someone might come along and help. I hadn't passed any carson this stretch and I was worried it might be some time before someone cameby. It was a hot July day and I was beginning to perspire.My worries ended when a pick-up truck pulled up behind my car. Two verylarge black men got out and walked to the front of my car. I was startledat first and a little afraid at the sight of these two giants. They seemedpolite enough when they asked if I needed help. I smiled and answered yes.Both looked under the hood and after a few minutes' one of the men saidthat it looked like a bad fuel pump. He offered to give me a ride into townto arrange a tow. I accepted his kindness and introduced myself.The man that offered the ride told me that his name was Fred and hisfriend's name was Joe. We all got in their truck with me sitting in themiddle. The pick-up was old and had no air-conditioning. It was. I could even see a plume of distant smoke despite the new moon.That could mean food. But it also meant people, and they tended to have pitchforks and superstitions. I cursed as another growl escaped my gut, and looked again at the smoke. I found myself, drawn nearly against my will, walking forward. I pulled the hood of my long coat forward, settling it over my compact horns. I found myself gripping the wire hilt of my knife; a large dagger with a wicked curve, my only possession of worth. It was. . . comforting.It only took an hour to reach the source of the smoke, a lone cottage surrounded by a fence. A barn stood nearby, and I could smell the tell-tale sign of manure. It was clearly a farm, though not a large one. I leaned on a tree, outside of the radiating light of the farmstead.Should I just knock on the door, hope for the best?My hand went to the bandage on my left arm, a souvenir from a rusty sickle. The skin was puffy and inflamed, and had a sickening sweetness to it. Hoping.
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