He turned. The pressure, the suppression, the helpless anger was in him meeting the heavy hand of the sun. An old Indian, wearing dirty levis and a denim shirt and a beaded belt, was standing near him. His face was angled, so dark it had a bluish tinge. "Blanket? Rugs? Hand-made. Real Indian stuff."
"My wife's sick," Stan said. "She needs a doctor. I want to use your phone to call a doctor. I can't leave the Freeway—"
This was the fourth unauthorized stop he had made since Anna had tried to jump out of the car back there—when it was going a hundred miles an hour.
The Indian saw the Special's license. He shrugged, then shook his head.
"For God's sake don't shake your head," Stan yelled. "Just let me use your phone—"
The Indian kept on shaking his head. There was no emotion, only a fatalistic acceptance of the overly-complex world he and many of his kind had rejected long ago. "You're a Crackpot."
"But what's that to you when I just want to use your phone? If I can get a doctor's affidavit—"
"If I help you, then the Law come down on my neck."
"But I only want to use the phone!"
"I cannot risk it. You drive on now."