The road soon became mud. A thick sludge where tires spun and the car threatened to swerve with each new purchase.
“We should get out and walk from here.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“The roads will dry out, and we aren’t far. Might as well walk.”
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. I should stay in the car.”
“Suit yourself.”
Fred opened the driver’s door and stepped out, his shoes immediately sinking into the mud. He had to admit, the idea had not been a good one. George, who initially agreed with an offhand indulgence to quaint smalltown absurdity, had spent the intervening hours relentlessly complaining about his agreeance. Fred heard the passenger door open, and George’s curses as he tried to step lightly upon the mud, but nevertheless sank his polished shoes into a deep puddle.
Ken Ruffolo 