had asked for. I delivered the checks at the desk and as I started out, a man in the lobby spoke to me.

"I'm a stranger in town. Can you tell me anything about an old covered bridge in the neighborhood?"

"Yes," I said. "It's six miles south."

He kept me there, talking, asking questions about Hintonville. He was neat, rather fleshy-faced, probably thirty-five or forty. I liked his friendliness and his odd, one-sided way of smiling.

"I'm going out for a look at that bridge," he said. "Like to go along and show me the way?"

"I'm due back at the bank now," I said.

"No hurry. We could make it this evening." "All right," I said.

He asked my name and introduced himself. He was Fred Zimmerman, a brush salesman, passing through town.

I met him at the hotel that evening. We drove down the highway in his old green car. The sky was turning pink, and I told him we'd have to hurry if he wanted to see the bridge before sundown.

But he seemed in no hurry. A few miles down the highway he turned off on a side road.

"This isn't the way," I said.

He parked and turned toward me, smiling a little. "I saw the bridge this morning... not mad at me, are you?"

I was bewildered. The idea flashed through my mind that this was all a joke, that somehow he was making fun of me.

"I'm lonesome, kid," he said. "That's the plain truth, and when I saw you today I got the idea you were lonesome, too.'

Still bewildered, I could think of nothing to say.

"Don't be mad at me," he said, his voice husky and warm. "We're all human, after all."

He picked up my hand and held it. I began to shiver.

"Cold, kid?" He put an arm heavily around my shoulders and drew me toward him.

Hours later he let me out at the edge of town. I stumbled home in a daze. Now I knew. Now I knew.

"Fred-Fred-" I said over and over. It was the most precious name in the world to me.

Father was waiting in the hall. He took out his watch and looked at it. "Where have you been?"

I could feel my face burning. "Out. Walking.”

"Where? Who with?"

"Out-along the reservoir-by myself," I stammered.

"You're lying. Who were you with? What were you doing?”

"I don't have to tell you everywhere I go," I said.

He took a step toward me.

"And don't you touch me, either!" I said.

I edged past him and ran upstairs.

I didn't see Fred again before he left the next morning, but he had promised to write and give me his next address.

For a month I watched the mails for his letter. I began a long letter to him, writing a page a day. I told him how I loved him, missed him, longed for him. I was seventeen.

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