was that a stranger could appear on a road that had taken everything from her and do something this ordinary — change a tire, get a person back on their way — without it meaning anything at all.
When he was done, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at her.
“Take care now, Margaret.”
Everything in her stopped.
She had not told him her name.
“What did you say?”
But he was already stepping back.
“Wait—”
He looked at her once — the look of a man who has more to say and has decided this is not the moment for it — and then he turned and walked toward the tree line at the edge of the shoulder.
She got back in her car with her hands still shaking.
That was when she saw the Polaroid on the passenger seat.
What Was in the Photograph, and What She Did the
