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and Harry retaliates by releasing one of his gas attacks on us.
    “If Harry doesn’t stop teeing off, we’ll all soon be asphyxiated,” observes Chris.
    “Why don’t we open a window?” I offer.
    “Are you crazy? It’s too cold. Freezing could be detrimental to our health.”
    “Would you rather be nauseous?”
    “I’d rather be neither, Steve. Why don’t we just throw the farting dog out of the car?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell her. “The weather’s changing. 1 ’
    “What?”
    “Look outside.”
    Chris looks. “It isn’t!”
    “It is!”
    “It isn’t!”
    “Put on the lights.”
    Chris puts on the headlights, and it is.
    Snowing.
    So we remain in our smelly, sealed-tight, frozen fart-mobile, snow slowly mounting around us, very cold, very wet, again very hungry and now very tired. Chris crawls over to me and puts her head in my lap, and we both try counting sheep.
    Some three hours later, at around four in the morning, we are awakened by the bright lights of an emergency patrol truck pulling up behind us. A young, personable Canadian gets out, and we tell him our troubles.
    He fills our empty tank fast enough and then charges us twenty-five dollars, which must be the going rate around New England these days for five gallons of hand-delivered gasoline.
    But I have no cash left on me and damned anyway if I’m going to spring for another of Chris’ mishaps. So she begrudgingly writes out a check, ultimately even adding a two-dollar tip because she thinks the guy’s got sexy eyes.
    I announce that I’m going to drive, and Chris grows mutinous, claiming she paid for the gas, thus giving her the same driving rights and permissions allotted me when I last coughed up the cash.
    “All right, Chris, you drive. At this point I don’t care if we ever get there.”
    And from the looks of things, perhaps we won’t. It’s stillsnowing heavily, has been for three hours, and there are as many accumulated inches. But neither sleet nor snow nor dark of night can deter Mad Wheels from her appointed rounds and we are soon snowplowing toward Stowe.
    A ride that would normally, under ideal conditions, take a little over half an hour between Montpelier and Stowe takes, this early morning, almost two. We turn off the main highway at Waterbury, heading for Stowe just as the first hint of early light appears. It still snows heavily, turning the countryside lovely in all-white. And driving isn’t too bad as the road here has been recently plowed.
    Steady at the wheel, Chris mentions how peaceful, lovely, serene and inviting is Vermont. .. and how happy she is to be here, away from all the hassles of the city.
    And as we pull off the highway and up the long, snow-laden winding drive leading to the Lewises’ house, on this cold, gray, clouded morning, I see that my watch reads seven fifteen.
    Pointing out the hour to Chris, I ask, “What do you suppose Maggie and Douglas will have to say about our being over fourteen hours late?”
    “What can they say? I’m sure they’ll agree we made remarkably good time considering how much trouble we had.”
    Logic to which I can find no adequate response.

Chapter Four  
    Perhaps the ultimate test of a really good friend is one who doesn’t mind being aroused at some absurdly early hour. Bleary-eyed and not yet quite awake, Maggie Lewis opens the door and has the decency to greet us most warmly, even if she hasn’t begun to focus yet and has absolutely no idea who we are.
    We exchange hugs and kisses but no hellos. It’s too early for words. At last, Maggie drowsily says, “You’re late.”
    “Yes!” answers Chris, beaming with pride.
    “Very,” mutters Maggie, one eye opening.
    “Very what?” asks Chris blandly.
    “You’re very late.” Two eyes. “How come?”
    “It’s a long story.”
    “Oh.”
    There is a twenty-second or so lapse in this stimulating conversation, during which time I get the feeling Maggie may be falling back to sleep.
    Her eyes