There are books to the ceiling in the Caddy's back seat, all of them new with shiny jackets. There are books in the front seat, too. Books on the dashboard, books in the rear-window well, books on the floorboards, books falling out of the glove compartment and books jammed in the little slots in the armrests. The trunk is full of books, too, weighing the car down until it slithers along inches from the ground like some fifties hot rod with three gunnysacks of rocks in the turtledeck. The cold front fires a blast down the stovepipe.
Trees shatter in the cold.
He rolls up the window. Not because of the cold. He has a fine appreciation for the value of a good echo chamber. He can get twice the volume out of his voice that way. Walt Morey, seventy-five years old, is on his way to Wyoming to speak to some kids.