Edward Adrift

then again at 7:13 a.m. Sheila Renfro and I had continental breakfast together, since there’s no one else in the motel. She said she’d been up at 4:37 a.m. She said she always sets her alarm for 4:37 a.m. so she can prepare breakfast and attend to the motel. I think that is neat.
    High temperature for Sunday, December 18, 2011, Day 352: 50 in Billings. (Holy shit!) That’s six degrees warmer than the day before.
    Low temperature for Sunday, December 18, 2011: 35. That’s also six degrees warmer than the low from the day before.
    Precipitation for Sunday, December 18, 2011: 0.00 inches. Same as the previous three days.
    Precipitation for 2011: 19.41 inches
    New entries:
    Exercise for Sunday, December 18, 2011: Not much, since we were traveling part of the day. However, I am getting up and sitting down much more easily, except when I haven’t had my pain pill andit hurts. Sheila Renfro says we’re going to take a long walk today. I’m looking forward to that.
    Miles driven Sunday, December 18, 2011: Sheila Renfro threw a kink into my program by taking an alternate route out of Denver (and she seems gleeful about having done so, which is damned dirty pool). So I’ve decided that the only miles that count on this trip are the ones driven by me. Sheila Renfro thinks she outsmarted me, but she didn’t.
    Total miles driven: Given my decision, I’m holding steady at 1,844.9, now that I’ve determined how far from Limon I drove before hitting the snowplow.
    Gas usage Sunday, December 18, 2011: None by me.
    Addendum: I just now read what Sheila Renfro wrote in this space yesterday. I think it’s pretty funny how she was yelling at me in writing for trying to see her words. I guess she doesn’t understand that this is my logbook and my data, so of course I would be proprietary (I love the word “proprietary”) about it.
    I should also say one other thing. She wrote that I need to get over the fact that I peed the bed. I could get past that. But I also peed in the overnight nurse’s shoes. It’s much worse than Sheila Renfro made it out to be. But I’m trying to get past that, too. In general, Sheila Renfro makes a good point. She just didn’t make it with the level of precision I would prefer.
    At 10:24 a.m., after Sheila Renfro has put away the breakfast food, collected the mail, and done a sweep of the rooms, she tells me that she would like to take me on a walk through Cheyenne Wells. Snow still sits deep on the ground, but the sun is out and there is little wind.
    “How far do you think you can go?” she asks. “A couple of blocks?”
    “I think so,” I say.
    I’m walking all right, but I do get short of breath. One of my lungs collapsed in the accident, and while the doctors did manage to repair it, I’ll have to keep exercising to get my wind back.
    Sheila Renfro leaves a note on the door to tell prospective lodgers that she will be back in an hour. We set out across the highway into the middle of the small town. At South First Street, we turn left, and Sheila points to a large redbrick building in front of us.
    “That’s the county courthouse,” she says. “Let’s go over there.”
    Cheyenne Wells seems like a pleasant town, and Sheila Renfro seems like a well-regarded resident. She is greeted by name at the lumberyard and outside a bar. Three cars honk at her, and she waves to all of them.
    “You know everybody,” I say.
    “I should. I’ve lived here all my life. There’s only a little more than a thousand people here. It’s not hard to know them.”
    “There are more than a hundred thousand people in Billings,” I say.
    “Too many.”
    “I don’t know them all.”
    “I should think not.”
    “My father might have, though. He was very popular.”
    “Really? You made him sound kind of mean.”
    “He was sometimes.” I feel defensive about my father, even though Sheila Renfro is only reacting to what I’ve told her. “He was a complicated person. But people loved him.”
    “Edward, let’s sit down,” Sheila Renfro says. She guides us to a bench outside the courthouse. “I’d like to talk to you.”
    I ease myself onto the wooden bench. It has a sturdy back, which is good, as that allows me to keep from putting too much stress on my ribs.
    “Do you like me?” Sheila Renfro asks me.
    “Of course I do.”
    “Why do you like me?”
    This question flummoxes me. Where do I start? “You’re nice, and you’ve been friendly to me.”
    “That’s true.”
    “You’ve