There was no use wishing he were back in bed, though. This desolate hill country! And he seemed to be going the wrong way -it was as if he were going back, far back. Once more Bowman wished he could fall into the big feather bed that had been in her room. All afternoon, in the midst of his anger, and for no reason, he had thought of his dead grandmother. He had had very high fever, and dreams, and had become weakened and pale, enough to tell the difference in the mirror, and he could not think clearly. This was his first day back on the road after a long siege of influenza. He was feverish, and he was not quite sure of the way. It made him feel all the more angry and helpless. The sun, keeping its strength here even in winter, stayed at the top of the sky, and every time Bowman stuck his head out of the dusty car to stare up the road, it seemed to reach a long arm down and push against the top of his head, right through his hat-like the practical joke of an old drummer, long on the road. It was a long day! The time did not seem to clear the noon hurdle and settle into soft afternoon. Bowman, who for fourteen years had traveled for a shoe company through Mississippi, drove his Ford along a rutted dirt path.
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