“It would hardly have qualified as a village back home. It had a population of 321. That's what it said on the cracked green sign we passed on the way in, sitting on top of Farmer Giles's tractor. He wasn't really called Farmer Giles. We didn't know what he was called. More to the point, we didn't care. We were cold and damp and miserable. We hated each other. If we'd been two hundred years older, or younger, depending on how you look at it, we might have fought a duel. And I would have won, bec...ause I had right on my side. When we weren't glaring at each other we noted the small school, the bank, the half a dozen guest-houses and dozens of small tourist-trap businesses exploiting the city's position on the edge of the western Everglades. It probably looked okay in the sunshine. Farmer Giles towed our Land Cruiser to an auto-shop on the far side of the city, although you could have walked back to the nearside in about three minutes. It was still raining heavily, but it was all a question of degree: at home it would have qualified as the worst thunderstorm in history; standing at JJ's Auto-shop waiting for JJ to finish ramming a four-tier sandwich into his bake, it actually looked like the rain was easing off.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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