The tires slide in the mud and sparse gravel of the lane, but she doesn’t slow down. There is no time to waste. If she can make it to the highway by the Colvin’s, she will be okay. Once she is on pavement, she can relax.
But her thoughts go back to Frank. Of course, it isn’t that he doesn’t care about those things; he works, leaving every morning before daybreak for his tiny office in Charlottesville and coming home tired and sad looking. And even then, if there is any light, he will sometimes do something around the yard, working on a chicken coop with the two boys straggling along behind him carrying the hammer and nails. Or sometimes he will take his old .22 and go out to kill a squirrel for them