THERE WERE TWO houses where the dirt road joined the highway. Catherine could have stopped at either and found help.

She never thought of it. In a fog of shock she had fixed her destination, and she would not stop until she reached it. She drove south on the highway without seeing anything but the concrete in front of her.

To reach the sheriff ’s office, she had to turn off the highway into the town. When she saw the familiar brick building sitting squarely in front of the old jail, Catherine felt dizzy with relief.

The lights inside the little building were on. Through the glass door Catherine could see the dispatcher, Mary Jane Cory, seated at her desk behind the counter.

It took an immense effort of will to unclamp her hands from the wheel, open the car door, swing her legs out, and force the rest of her body to follow them.

“Good morning, Catherine! I’ll be with you in a minute,” Mrs. Cory said briskly, and thudded out a few more words on her ancient typewriter.

In what later seemed to Catherine insanity, she kept silent and waited obediently. She leaned on the counter, her hands gripping the far edge of it to keep upright.

That silence alerted some warning signal in Mary Jane Cory. She gave Catherine a second glance and then was on her feet, her hands covering Catherine’s.

“What’s the matter?” the older woman asked sharply.

“The sheriff…I want to see the sheriff,” Catherine said painfully. Her jaws ached from long clenching.

“Are you going to faint, Catherine?” Mrs. Cory asked, still in that sharp watchful voice.

Catherine didn’t answer.

Mrs. Cory switched her grip from Catherine’s hands to her upper arms and called without turning her head, “James Galton! Come here quick!”

There was a stir in the office that had “Sheriff” on the door. The roar of the air conditioning covered the sound of Galton’s quiet steps, but a khaki-covered elbow appeared in Catherine’s range of view, propped on the counter beside her.