The morning.

May 20, Millersburg.

The last stretch of the road was tough for our circus fleet, steep hills and curves, Armando's truck all but stopping going up, trucks veering dangerously in the curves, moving in slow motion. We are always at the same spot in Millersburg, in the heart of Amish country, but not this year, because that lot in under ten inches of water.
On the road this morning I found myself crying out silently "It's not raining!"
We are ten miles out of town on an auction lot and there were some vendors as we pulled up: selling saddles, a tall rooster in a cage, country fares.
The Fuscos' truck broke down halfway here and Fridman is still with them with Castro and Dan as I write.