At any rate， we made some sandwiches， put the dog in the car， and drove through the leafy streets of town， Nome was in the back seat， hanging his head out the window. All was well. But then we turned onto the unmarked blacktop road that led out to Chris and Anneliese’s and saw the car there， a silver 10）Toyota， engine running， stopped in our lane. As we got closer we saw a woman—girl—coming toward us down the center of the road， her face flushed and her eyes wet with what might have been the effects of overwrought emotion or maybe 11）hay fever， which was 12）endemic here， and we saw a man—boy—perched on the hood of the car， shouting abuse at her retreating back. The term “lovers’ quarrel” came into my head at the very moment the girl lifted her face and Mallory yelled， “Stop！” “It’s a lovers’ quarrel，” I said， ever so slightly depressing the accelerator.“Stop！” Mallory repeated， more insistently this time. The guy was watching us， something like an angry smirk on his face. The girl—she was no more than a hundred feet away now—raised her hand as if to flag us down， and I eased up on the gas， thinking that maybe they were in trouble after all， something wrong with the car， the engine overheating， the fuel gauge on empty. It was hot. Grasshoppers flung themselves at the windshield like yellow hail. All you could smell was tar.
The car slowed to a halt and the girl bent to my window.
“You need help？” I asked.
“He’s such a jerk，” she said， sucking in her breath. “He’s， he’s”—another breath—“I hate him.”
Mallory leaned over me so the girl could see her face. “Is he your—”
“He’s a jerk，” the girl repeated. She was younger than us， late teens， early twenties. She wore her blond hair in braids and she was dressed in a black tank top， cut-off jeans， and pink 13）Crocs. She threw a look at the guy， who was still perched on the hood of the car， then wiped her nose with the back of her hand and began to cry again.
“That’s right，” he shouted. “Cry. Go ahead. And then you can run back to your mommy and daddy like the little retard you are！” He was blond， too， more of a rusty blond， and he had the makings of a reddish beard creeping up into his sideburns. He was wearing a 14）Banksy T-shirt， the one with the rat in sunglasses on it， and it clung to him as if it had been painted on. You could see that he spent time at the gym. A lot of time.
“Get in the car，” Mallory said. “You can come with us—it’ll be all right.”
“It’s between them，” I said， “It’s none of our business.”
“None of our business？” she shot back at me. “She could be abused or， I don’t know， abducted， you ever think of that？” She strained to look around me， as if the girl should be fixed on the blacktop. “Did he hit you， is that it？”
Another sob， sucked back as quickly as it was released. “No. He’s just a jerk， that’s all.”
“Yeah，” he crowed， sliding down off the hood， “you tell them all about it， because you’re Little Miss Perfect， aren’t you？ You want to see something？ You， I’m talking to you， you in the car.” He raised one arm to show the long red striations there， evidence of what had passed between them. “You want her？ You can have her.”