There was a drawing on the card of a tow truck with a smile on its grille. Somebody had added, in blue ballpoint, eyelashes.
Vivienne put in her quarter and dialed.
It rang four times. Then there was a clatter, as if the receiver had been dropped and recovered, and a voice that was clearly a child's but was doing its absolute level best not to be said, "Beaulieu's Garage and Towing, we tow anything but feelings, this is the dispatcher speaking."
Vivienne closed her eyes for a moment. "Good morning," she said. "I'm afraid my car has broken down."
"Okay. Don't be afraid. What kind of car?"
"An Alfa Romeo."
There was a pause of real respect. "Is it red?"
"It is red."
"I knew it," said the dispatcher, with satisfaction. "They're always red. What's it doing?"
"It's steaming. There was a light. And the needle went over to the right side. To the H."
"That's hot," the dispatcher said. "H is for hot. Did you keep driving it?"
"No. I stopped right away. I put my hazards on."
"Good," said the dispatcher, approvingly, and then, away from the receiver, at the top of a pair of lungs that had clearly been doing this since birth: "DAD. RED ALFA. OVERHEATED. SHE STOPPED RIGHT AWAY." There was a murmur from somewhere farther off. "He says where are you?"
Vivienne told her. Half a mile north of Plourde's store, beside a field of corn and a cow.