It would undoubtedly be another of the cheesedog variety, but the alternatives – sleeping outside and getting eaten alive by skeeters or in some farmers barn – were even less appealing. By then it was late afternoon, and Tim decided he had better find a motel in which to spend the night. Here a sign pointed toward the town of DuPray. When a ride was not immediately forthcoming on US 17, he strolled a couple of miles to where it joined State Road 92. He shook her hand, got out, and walked back along the I-95 breakdown lane to the Hardeeville exit. America was still a good place, no matter how much some (including himself from time to time) might disagree. He was touched and surprised – not for the first time – by the ordinary kindness and generosity of ordinary folks, especially those without much to spare. ‘Do you need monetary assistance? I can spare ten dollars if you do.’ ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Jamieson.’ It’s not like I’m racing a deadline or anything.’

The way he’d felt being stuck halfway back in economy class of the Delta flight, in fact. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ The traffic clog was making him feel claustrophobic.

‘To tell you the truth, I saw you standing there in the hot sun and just decided to live a little dangerously.’ ‘Oh, I’ll find another strong back to help me unload,’ she said, and smiled at him. If I were you, I would exit my vehicle, walk back to the Hardeeville exit, and try your luck on Highway 17.’ Mr Jamieson, you may be excused from further duty. There’s been a wreck somewhere up ahead, and with only two lanes, nobody can get by. ‘Oh,I hate it when this happens,’ Marjorie said, ‘and it always seems to in South Carolina, where they’re too cheap to widen the highway. Cars and trucks were stacked up in both lanes, and more quickly filled in behind them. But not long after passing Hardeeville, their progress came to a stop. These, Marjorie Kellerman told him, were bound to the Yemassee Public Library, about forty miles further north, across the South Carolina state line. He dollied another dozen or so cartons out to the Volvo. Tim unloaded the cartons of books and dollied them inside. Sixty five miles north, still in Georgia, she stopped at a poky little library in the town of Pooler. They understand culture no more than a donkey understands algebra.’ Which, she said, had no money because ‘Trump and his cronies took it all back. She also belonged to something called the Southeastern Library Association. EXCERPT: Her name was Marjorie Kellerman, and she ran the Brunswick library.

Stephen king the institute review