"It started this afternoon," she said defensively. "Eventually."
He did not say anything, which was somehow worse than if he had. He walked over and she followed him and she got in and turned the key, and the Beetle made a noise like a sewing machine in pain and then fell silent, and she put her forehead down on the steering wheel and closed her eyes.
When she opened them he was leaning on the roof of the car, looking in at her through the window, snow collecting in his hair.
"I can jump it," he said. "But the way it's coming down, I'm going to follow her home anyhow. She lives out on Laurel Hill, and that road's going to be glass in an hour. You want to come along, I'll run you back to your place after. You can get your car in the morning when it's light."
She thought about saying no. She thought about the fact that she had known this man for exactly twenty-two minutes and that in that time she had fought him for a turkey, told him he was hot, been robbed in front of him, and learned that he walked past her father's name every day of his working life. It seemed to her that a great deal of ground had been covered already. It seemed to her that getting into his truck was the least strange thing that had happened all evening.
"I've got groceries," she said. "Well. Groceries is generous. I've got a can of cranberry sauce and a bag of sweet potatoes that look like they were dug up by archaeologists."
"I'll make room," he said.