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    The sky opened its throat, empty of clouds but spewing a silent silver grief. Her heart was as leaden as the air. Her drenched clothes clung to her like a second skin.
    She found home and bed and Mom, but still the ache tore at her heart.
    "What's wrong, honey?" Mom said, sitting on the bed. Beneath the concern in Mom's voice, Sally heard elation and relief. Rain pounded on the shingles, steady and untiring and passionate. Puddles stretched themselves outward and rivers swelled with Sally's hurt. Shriveled apples were knocked from their branches and umbrellas collapsed like tissues.
    Ordinary people watched from their windows as the sudden rain fell. Minutes before, not a cloud had dotted the sky. But in the people's happiness they forgot all about the oddness of it, too joyful that the dry spell was broken. They stuck out their tongues and quenched themselves.
    The rain kept on into the night and throughout the next day, soaking all the kids who went to the Halloween dance. Then two more days without pause, the ground saturated and the ditches swollen, brown water churning over sewer grates, all pulled by the gravity girl toward the far gulf. The creeks bloated, and the creek minders wrung their hands, flustered by the loss of control.
    On the fourth day, when the rivers leapt their banks and people evacuated their front porches in rowboats, when everyone huddled in yellow slickers and no dry socks remained, then, then, they started worrying.
    Young hearts are slow in healing.
    Sally drowned November.
    ###

 
     
    WHEN YOU WEAR THESE SHOES
     
    When you wear these shoes, you go places.
    Oxford shoes, these are. Sure, that may sound fancy, but take a look. Just plain shoes, really.
    Scuffed all across the top of the toe box, heels about worn down to the tacks, tongues hanging out like a hound dog's on a hot August day. Insoles nearly worn through, meeting up with my skin where the holes in my socks are.
    But my feet never blister, nosiree. Never had a corn or bunion one. And I've put many a mile on them. Tens of thousands, if you can believe it. But I see you don't.
    I'm just getting these shoes broke in, in fact. You take a new shoe. It's hard and stiff as a brick and the leather smells like it's still got cow inside. You got to pry it on with a metal shoe horn, then squeak around with miserable toes for a few months. Strings are brittle, too, won't hardly stay tied. You end up doing more bending over than walking.
    And walking's what it's really all about, ain't it? Racking up miles, one shoe in front of the other. That's what brings our kind out to these hiking trails. Ain't it funny how they have to set aside places where you can walk these days? You can't just up and hoof around any old place.
    And in country like this, out in the middle of nowhere with the sun long gone, not many people would let a stranger even so much as speak to them. But I reckon a strapping young fellow like you don't scare easy.
    I can tell you're a traveler, same as me. You with your backpack and two hundred dollar boots with cleats so deep you can walk on marbles. Them boots are designed by computer, I hear, what is it they call that brand? Oh, yeah, "a unique combination of comfort and durability." Them words add about eighty bucks to the cost, I'd imagine.
    Now, don't look at me like that. I read things. I may not seem like much, just like these old shoes don't seem like much. But you ought not judge a book by its cover. Since you don't mind me sitting here and sharing your fire, I might just open up this old book. Meaning my story, that is. Or more rightly, the story of the shoes.
    Ah, there we go. I still like to rest my feet a little now and then. Something to eat? Why, yes, thank you kindly, that would hit the spot. Tuna fish is good energy food. Only, don't mind me if I slip up and talk with my mouth full now and again.
    I was about your age, more or less, when I walked into the little town of Seymour, Indiana. I worked the fields,