STORY 3, Part 4

No sooner did I get one part of the quonset cabin swept than another gust would kick up more dirt. But in the evening, as I sat in the doorway with the company of the pale moon in the pale sky and the hills like great peaks of devil's food frosting, I felt better than I had in months, years--ever, maybe. On Easter the dawn was lemon and mango. It's easy to fall in love with desert mornings. Just as the sun poured into the valley, a truck came over the hill. It was the guy from Midway Wells, the one I'd asked directions from months earlier.

"Didn't think I'd see you again," he said, moving right to the point. "Saw you drive by yesterday. Didn't see your car come out. Spent the night." I nodded. He seemed to be narrating just fine. "We'll get the well working for you in no time. Name's Walker Hadley." He got out.

"I'm Gerogia.  Georgia Summers," I said. For no reason I could figure, I had given him only my maiden name.

"We're just about related," he observed. "Your Aunt Ruth die?"

"No." He seemed to know that, though. That's the way it is out here, I thought, no one around so folks keep careful track of the ones who used to be.

"No, she's in good health." He seemed younger than the last time I had seen him, in his late fifties, back like a turtle, too, and arms and face weathered. The Clinique girl would have her work cut out on his make-over.