At 11:32 a.m., Mann passed the truck.
He was heading west, en route to San Francisco. It was Thursday and unseasonably hot for April. He
had his suit coat off, his tie removed and shirt collar opened, his sleeve cuffs folded back. There was
sunlight on his left arm and on part of his lap. He could feel the heat of it through his dark trousers as he drove along the two-lane highway. For the past twenty minutes, he had not seen another vehicle going in either direction.
Then he saw the truck ahead, moving up a curving grade between two high green hills. He heard the
grinding strain of its motor and saw a double shadow on the road. The truck was pulling a trailer.
He paid no attention to the details of the truck. As he drew behind it on the grade, he edged his car
toward the opposite lane. The road ahead had blind curves and he didn't try to pass until the truck had
crossed the ridge. He waited until it started around a left curve on the downgrade, then, seeing that the
way was clear, pressed down on the accelerator pedal and steered his car into the eastbound lane. He
waited until he could see the truck front in his rear-view mirror before he turned back into the proper
lane.
Mann looked across the countryside ahead. There were ranges of mountains as far as he could see
and, all around him, rolling green hills. He whistled softly as the car sped down the winding grade, its tires making crisp sounds on the pavement.
At the bottom of the hill, he crossed a concrete bridge and, glancing to the right, saw a dry stream bed
strewn with rocks and gravel. As the car moved off the bridge, he saw a trailer park set back from the
highway to his right. How can anyone live out here? he thought. His shifting gaze caught sight of a pet
cemetery ahead and he smiled. Maybe those people in the trailers wanted to be close to the graves of
their dogs and cats.
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