We ran out of gas ten miles from town. As the car sputtered to a halt, I looked in the backseat. Not a scrap of food to be found; only discarded wrappers from previous meals. I elbowed Nora, who had been slumbering in the passenger seat for over an hour. She opened one eye and then closed it again. I opened the door and looked down both ends of the long straight roadway. No cars in sight. A few hours passed before a trucker pulled over and offered us a ride into town. The driver had a broad friendly face and my fears were allayed when I saw that he had the Teamsters logo tattooed prominently on this bicep. This man belonged to something; we were in good hands.