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"Liquor, gas, Isadora Daily News," he read. "Maggie's Café, Isadora Bank and Trust. Come on, come on. Where's the doctor?" |
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When he reached the end of main street with no sign of a doctor's office Chris stopped the truck and rolled down the window. Several men of retirement age or older stood in front of Jerry's Hardware Store, staring and pointing at the shattered windows of the Explorer. |
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"Where's the doctor's office?" Chris shouted. |
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"Doc Franklin?" asked one of theman ancient, grizzled string bean of a man with a smoke-roughened voice and skin resembling high-priced alligator shoes. |
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"Whoever. I need a doctor. It's an emergency." |
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The man pointed a long cigarette-stained finger up the road. "Down there, maybe half a mile. Doc Franklin has an office at the back of his house. Can't miss it, son. Big sign out front says, 'Doctor Franklin.'" |
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"Thanks." Chris tore out of town in a spray of dust. Just as the man said, a half mile away stood a large wood sign with hand-painted lettering announcing the doctor's office. |
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Chris turned into a long gravel-coated driveway. The Explorer fishtailed, then righted itself, spewing stones and dust every which way. He came to a screeching stop at the front of the house and glanced at D.J. She had slid downward on the door until her head rested against the armrest. |
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"D.J.?" he called, hoping she would open her eyes and alleviate some of his fears. |
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She didn't move. The only indication that she still |
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