Twenty

The crash was heard in Italy,

Brazil, and Timbuktu.

No matter for the universe

Twas just a world or two.

Andrea sat in her van at a Texaco service station in Sarasota. The morning was cool, but the air seemed stuffy even with the windows rolled down. She picked up her Florida map and fanned her face, sighing as she watched the mechanic in conversation with the pump attendant. She was waiting for him to check her van, and it irritated Andrea to see him wasting her time. She checked her watch and glanced toward the phone booth a few feet away, expecting Torry to return her call at any moment. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back on the seat and tried to relax as the interstate traffic rumbled on the overpass a few hundred feet away.

Less than an hour ago she had been in a joyous mood, though a long drive had lain ahead. She had said good-bye to Torry in the sweet blush of tenderness, and his last kiss had tarried on her lips as she headed north on Interstate 75.

Andrea had been on the road for less than fifteen minutes, when her van began to vibrate noticeably. She remembered hearing a squeaking noise when she left the hotel parking garage, but she'd paid scant attention. Andrea became alarmed with the increasing tremor; her heart quickened and her breathing accelerated.

Afraid to continue, she had pulled off the highway at the first service station Andrea had been thankful she was still in town as she parked and walked to the cashier's station. There was no one behind the counter. She waited impatiently, looking around at the cramped space crowded with a coke machine and a display of motor oil. When no one appeared, she poked her head in the garage, where a mechanic was working under the hood of an aging Ford Mustang. He looked up, frowning, when Andrea said, "Excuse me." The man was in his fifties, balding, and wore a surprising clean pair of coveralls. His expression softened as she explained the situation briefly and ask him if he would look into the problem.