The rain woke me early and I lay in bed looking out the window, which faced west so it collected the drops from the wind. I watched them accrue with even randomness on the panes. Then I  dressed and went and stood on the porch. The air was colder than the morning before. The maple had spread its leaves, red and gold, in a circle on the lawn under its branches overnight.

I watched the cars drive by, the street getting darker as the water gathered on its surface, until the sound of the passing cars was paper tearing, or the speeded-up sound of static electricity on a winter night. Farther off, on the highway just below the crest of the hill, the rain was coming down hard now and the cars trailed clouds of mist that looked exactly like the plumes of smoke they'd be trailing in a few months, in winter.

I heard the door open and close and Grandpa stood next to me, smoking his pipe. “Raining right smart,” he commented. When his tobacco went out, he said, “They should be here soon,” and grasped my shoulder and went back inside.

They were late. I stood and watched the highway, looking for their car.