The coach had been on the same road for an hour or more, passing beneath the unbroken arch of birches like a bridal party. Locke caught a glimpse of a wooden house; a smoking chimney between the trees, and wondered how he'd convey that the driver absolutely must wait while he retrieved Showalter from not-exactly-jail. There was no way of knowing when the next bus would come, or if he'd have to spend hours on the side of a nameless road in a foreign country, knee-deep in dead leaves, listening to Showalter's creepy anecdotes and smelling Showalter's body odor.

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