“Don’t worry about it, Megan,” he says.  “I apologize if I pried too much.  Whatever it is that you’re going to do . . . well, that’s your business.  Not mine.  I’ll get you there safely though, and then you can be on your way.”

She swallows.  “Okay.”

The driveway curves to the left, around a small pond, and comes back to the right, ending at a small two-story house.  It has old white siding, much of the paint peeling off.  Three pick-ups, two older Fords and an old Chevy, are lined up in front along the porch.