GREAT TRAILING CLOUDS OF DUST BILLOWED UP BEHIND the two-tone green Packard coupe as it barrelled along, hell-bent, through the middle of nowhere. Paying closer attention to the radio than to his driving, Sefton fiddled with the dial in an ongoing battle to defeat the static that kept intruding on the broadcast.

"Well, this is the old ballgame, riiiight here, friends," drawled the announcer with exaggerated import. Sefton listened intently, a bundle of nervous energy. "Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, full-count on the batter, as the Bears try to slam the door on this Tucson rally and chalk up a win. You can just feeeel the tension."

"You can say that again," agreed Sefton, commenting out loud to himself in the manner of a man who spends too much time alone.

"Okay, Cartwright has the sign. He sets. The runners take their leads."

"They'll be runnin' on the pitch," said Sefton.

"With two out and the count full, they'll be off with the pitch," echoed the announcer.

"That's what I just said," Sefton informed the radio.

"Now Cartwright steps off the rubber."

"Cartwright, you bum," said Sefton with amused disgust. "That's why you're still pitchin' in the bush leagues —'cause you got no guts." The radio crackled and whined. "Get in there and throw the damn ball, for Pete's sake."

"Okay, he's back on the rubber. He sets, he winds, the runners go, here's the payoff pitch ... OWEEEOOOOWOWEEEEEE...."

"What the hell?" snapped Sefton, reaching for the dial. He muttered to himself as he twisted the knob this way and that in a desperate attempt to tune back in on the game. Suddenly, hebecame aware of something in his path — a jackrabbit had dashed out into the road some twenty-five yards ahead of the car. Braking as he swerved to avoid it, Sefton overcorrected and went into a skid. The back end fishtailed out, and the massive Packard went sliding down the dirt road sideways. Sefton wrestled with the wheel in a urgent struggle until he was finally able to get the automobile under control. He glanced back to see the jackrabbit zig-zagging crazily through the sagebrush. "Damn jackrabbit."

"I'll be loving you," crooned an oily voiced tenor. Sefton quickly grabbed the dial and tried for a few futile seconds to get the game again. He smacked the top of the dashboard in vexation and switched off the radio. "Damn radio."

He drove on in silence for a few seconds. Without the game to occupy him, he focused on his surroundings, realizing all at once that it had been an hour since he had given any thought to his location.

"Where in the Sam Hill am I?" Sefton asked himself.

Still driving at a good clip, he opened the glove compartment and took out a road map. Keeping one eye on the road ahead, he opened the map and consulted it. Finally, he reached a conclusion.

"Lost is where I am." He looked around at the saguaro cacti that dominated the landscape. "I am lost."

He continued on for a few minutes before he noticed the darts of steam escaping from under the hood of the car. In a panic his eyes flew to the temperature gauge: the needle was pinned over the red H on the right. "Shit."

Sefton glided the Packard to a stop and got out. He immediately felt wilted by the blistering heat. "Holy hell," he gasped, "must be a hunnerd and twenty." In the distance he saw a group of turkey vultures circling lazily in the afternoon sky. "I could fry out here. My bones'd be bleached by the sun by the time anybody found me."

He limped to the front of the car and stood for some moments watching the steam dance up from the narrow gap between the hood and the body. He took out his handkerchief and lifted the hood, releasing an angry ball of vapor. The radiator hissed and sputtered. In his impatience, he briefly considered prying off the cap, but his better sense prevailed. "Let it cool down a bit," he advised himself.

Sefton limped to the back of the car and spread out the map on the trunk. He took out his billfold and removed a scrap of paper: Eddie Pulaski — Buckeye, Arizona. He went back to the map. "Buckeye," he said, fingering the word. He moved his finger southeast to Casa Grande where, after lunch two hours earlier, he had made the reckless decision to abandon the main road and cut across the desert on an unpaved road in an ill-advised attempt to save time.

He studied the map. I shoulda stayed in Tennessee, he thought. This ain't my territory. I don't know my way around here. Jeez, I could end up dyin' chasin' some high school kid who probably can't even throw hard enough to break a pane of glass.

Sefton leaned against the car. He watched a lizard scoot across the sand. Those mountains on the horizon — were they twenty miles away or two hundred? Jesus, what kinda godforsaken land is this? Nothin' but cactus and sagebrush. He thought of the Western movies he had seen and half expected a bunch of Indians suddenly to appear out of nowhere and come swooping down on him. Instead, a prairie dog made a mad dash along the ground; when it reached its hole, it sat up on its hind legs and looked straight at Sefton for a few seconds before disappearing into the earth. The air was so hot it rippled.

For a brief moment, Sefton considered heading back to Tennessee, but as soon as the thought presented itself, he ushered it out of his mind. On the other hand, he thought, this kid could be the real McCoy. There's always that chance....

He looked at the map again, trying to determine where he was. What made no sense was that judging by the sun, he was traveling east, and Buckeye was northwest of Casa Grande. Somehow, he had gotten turned around on these back roads and spent the afternoon chasing his tail. Now, here he was in one hell of a pickle.

In this heat, it could easily be an hour before the water in the radiator cooled down enough for him to get rolling again. Resigned to his misery, Sefton hobbled around to the shady side of the car, opened the door, and sat down on the running board.

The midday skies began to cloud up, and he could see a rainstorm in the distance. Soon it was as dark as it could be and still be daytime. Elaborately branched streaks of lightning momentarily lit up the scenery, followed by thunderclaps that grew increasingly ominous. Sefton decided he had better get moving.

He went to the front of the car and gingerly touched the radiator cap. It had cooled enough for him to remove it. He peered into the radiator, and there was a decent level of water still remaining. Still, best to keep the speed down, he figured. He replaced the cap, shut the hood, climbed into the car, and started it up.

He decided to keep driving east, that sooner or later he was bound to hit a paved road. After a few miles he came upon what appeared to be an irrigation canal that had a road alongside it.

He had been on the canal road for a couple of minutes when all at once the sky opened and a torrent of rain the likes of which Sefton had rarely seen began falling. Quickly, he rolled up the windows and turned on the windshield wipers, but they were wholly inadequate against the sheets of water that were teeming down.

After a hundred yards of driving blind, Sefton gave up and brought the Packard to a stop. He turned off the engine and sat listening to the rain pummel the cartop. In fifteen minutes, the storm began to taper off; five minutes more and it was done. The level of water in the canal had...