There wasn't a man in the car.
Scoop Martin never wrote his story that night. Nor any night thereafter.
Garth had slumped forward, his head on his arms. He awakened to the touch on his shoulder, turned tired eyes up to the girl who had entered.
"You?" his voice was dull and low. "You still here?"
"Yes, Mr. Garth. Here, I have some breakfast for you." Her face was pinched and drawn and only her eyes were beautiful.
He gulped at the food. While he ate, she went to a small opening and looked out. She returned to him, and when he had finished eating, she spoke.
"The militia, or perhaps they are national guardsmen, are here. They have surrounded us."
"What?"
For a moment, he did not understand. "Oh. So soon? No! You must be mistaken."