She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated.
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