Мгла
The End.
ButIwasterriblyafraidthatwewouldsooncometoanobstaclethateventhefour-wheeldrivecouldn’tgetusover.
Ittookmefortyminutestomakeadrivethatusuallyonlytooksevenoreight.Atlastthesignthatmarkedourprivateroadloomedoutofthemist.Billy,rousedataquarteroffive,hadfallensolidlyasleepinsidethiscarthatheknewsowellitmusthaveseemedlikehometohim.
Amandalookedattheroadnervously."Areyoureallygoingdownthere?"
"I’mgoingtotry,"Isaid.
Butitwasimpossible.Thestormthathadwhippedthroughhadloosenedalotoftrees,andthatweird,twistingdrophadfinishedthejoboftumblingthem.Iwasabletocrunchoverthefirsttwo;theywerefairlysmall.ThenIcametoahoaryoldpinelyingacrosstheroadlikeanoutlaw’sbarricade.Itwasstillalmostaquarterofamiletothehouse.Billysleptonbesideme,andIputtheScoutinPark,putmyhandsovermyeyes,andtriedtothinkwhattodonext.
Now,asIsitintheHowardJohnson’snearExit3oftheMaineTurnpike,writingallofthisdownonHoJostationery,IsuspectthatMrs.Reppler,thattoughandcapableoldbroad,couldhavelaidouttheessentialfutilityofthesituationinafewquickstrokes.Butshehadthekindnesstoletmethinkitthroughformyself.
Icouldn’tgetout.Icouldn’tleavethem.
