"How about a garage?" I asked. "How far is it to the nearest garage?"
He bobbed his head northward. "Two mile. Mebbe two'n a half," he said.
"Thanks," I told him, "for the poisonous information."
I locked the car and started in the direction he had pointed out. I had taken a dozen steps when he halted me.
"Swim good?" he asked.
I looked at him, then at the dull, gray, February sky, then at the dappled patches of unthawed snow clinging to the roots and hollows.
"I'm a duck," I said, "not a penguin. I stick to hot water in the winter. I hold the All-American free-style record for February bathtub paddling. Why?"
"That's what," he said, "I figgered. You can't go thataway, then. Bridge is out, an' river's half a mile wide. You better go 'tother direction."
I glared at him. "Say it," I said. "How far?"
"Fifteen miles," he guessed. "Sixteen, more like."