The goose lands with a thud, such heft buried beneath its downy feathers that the old truck gives a bounce, jostling the doctor from her stupor. The huge bird eyes her sideways through the lines of frost on the windshield. Breathe, it seems to say.
For twenty minutes she’s been sitting behind this wheel, breath clouding in front of her, snow piling on ice on the hood. Already, as every morning, she has slid beneath the chassis, lifted the hood, peered into the exhaust pipe, the gas tank, the rusted bed. No telltale wires, no conspicuous rags, no crouching strangers lying in wait.
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