Her eyes cooled, but stayed on me. Mud trickled from the blade of her shovel onto my shirt. My only motion was the curl of an eyebrow. She eyed the remains of the burrito in my hand. For a second her face sank with weariness. My hand twitched. Our eyes met. Rage twisted her lips. Her eyes burned again with deep chemical fires.

I slapped the shovel aside with my left hand, tucking the burrito into by coat with my right. With a kick of my legs I pulled myself out the door and into a shapeless pile at her feet. A reflex later I was on my feet, bounding towards my Honda.

"You bastard!"

The shovel struck my shoulder. I crumpled under its weight, but momentum splattered me against my car hood.

"Look, they're broken! Look!"

Not chancing a backwards look into a possible second blow, I flanked my vehicle. I yanked open the door, dove inside, and turned on the ignition.

"You bastard!" Clang-umth -- the bell-chime of invincible steel muted in the pliant folds of my car hood. I still couldn't see jack through the windshield, but it was no time for caution. I hit the gas and started rolling forward.

"Stop! Stop! You bastard, stop--" it came from behind me now. I slammed the brake and took a deep breath. I picked up the first serviceable weapon at my disposal--a rolled up magazine--and stepped outside my car again.

My bumper was now just inches from the back of the red truck. The hood of my Honda was dented from impact with the shovel, which had apparently been hurled at it. It skulked several yards away, suspended in a bush. Now the blond brandished only her tongue. But crouched on the ground fifteen feet back past by car, she didn't look up for a fight.

"You maniac! You fucking, bastard maniac--"

I approached slowly with the magazine readied.

"Look, Miss. My windshield wipers are broken. I can't see a damn thing."

"You asshole! You--"

"I could really use a ride." I cautiously extended the last soggy third of her burrito. She standing up and glaring at me pridefully, she snatched it with feline precision then walked away like a ballerina to retrieve the shovel. My shoulder ached now; while her back was turned I coddled it. She threw the implement into the back of her truck, and got into the front seat.

The truck's engine dumped thick exhaust at me. I didn't much mind; I was thinking about how to spend the night. Leaping into the back of the red truck and stowing away didn't seem like a viable option any more. I calculated that nights spent shivering in the the damp, dark interior of one's Honda have a much lower mortality rate.

"Hey, Mister Rockhead!" she shouted out her window. "You gonna get in or what?"

Deciding to risk it, I got into the passenger seat.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it."