By five-thirty the air was smoky with twilight. A few early lightning bugs flitted aimlessly through the air. A groundfog had curdled milkily in the ditches and lower gullies of the fields. Up ahead someone asked what happened if it got so foggy you walked off the road by mistake. Barkovitch’s unmistakable voice came back quickly and nastily: “What do you think, Dumbo?”
