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"Yes," he said.

It was one of those villages with a long main street and some side streets. All the stores were located in a row with some restaurants and small stores on some of the side streets. There was a fire station about midway and across from it was a police station and village hall. It looked like a train had once had Centerville as a stop. The tracks were gone, but the strip where they had been was still there about halfway down the main street.

Here and there we saw some pedestrians. The traffic was light. Some of the stores looked like they were closing already or had closed. The brightest window seemed to be a bar and grill called The Pit Stop.

"Mostly turn-of-the-century buildings," Harley said, nodding at the structures that leaned and looked tired. ''Not much has been built here for over a hundred years except some of the homes we've passed."

It was a sleepy little town, a place the world forgot. Major highways had been built around it, keeping people away. Except for a lumber company on the way in, there was no sign of any major business or industry. Ghosts were probably chafing at the bit, waiting to claim it. I thought. It was certainly not a town young people would come back to after they had finished school or training. When the owners of these small stores and family businesses passed on, each would disappear like a blip on a radar screen. Even the memories would scatter in the wind.

Somehow it seemed the right place for Harley's real father to be, a place to escape to, to run from your past and join citizens who were long forgotten. Just as we reached the end of the main street. Harley slowed down and turned right on a side street. I thought he was going to his father's home, but he brought us to a stop in front of a shingle that read Doctor Richards, Family Practice. It didn't look like a doctor's office. It looked like someone's home: a two-story Queen Anne with a wide front porch, cement steps and a narrow, concrete-square walkway. There was a small lawn, some pretty bushes and flowers and what looked like a swinging chair on the right.

"We can come back afterward. Harley," I said.

"No. Let's look after that ankle first. Summer," he insisted. "It might get us into trouble though," I moaned.

"We'll be fine. We're here. A little while longer won't matter." he insisted. "Just lean on me and keep off the foot," he said guiding me off the motorcycle.

He put his left arm around my waist and then literally lifted me and carried me down the walkway, up the stairs and to the front door. It was unlocked so we went right in and paused in the hallway. To the right was a small lobby, but there didn't seem to be anyone around. A moment later, however, a small woman, about fifty with a bundle of gray hair curled over her forehead and temples and bia, round dark brown eyes, came out of a door in the rear. She was wearing a white dress, It wasn't exactly a nurse's uniform, but it was close.

"Oh, what happened to you?" she cried as if she knew us for years and years.

"Motorcycle accident." Harley said. "She's hurt her ankle and we want to be sure it's not broken,"

"Of course, of course. Here," she said opening a door on her right into an examination room, "take her in and help her onto the table. I'll go get Doctor."

"That's a first," I said as Harley helped me in. "She didn't ask if we had health insurance first."

He laughed and helped me onto the

examination table. We both looked around at the diplomas on the walls. He had gone to medical schools in New York City.

"Well, what do we have here?" a short, grayhaired man in the open doorway asked. He continued to chew on something he was eating, his soft frill checks trembling with each bite. Even though his hair was all gray, cut short with a receding hairline that was beginning to show white scalp, his eyebrows had remained dark brown. He had a thick nose and a small mouth, but his face was friendly and pleasant, his eyes even a bit amused.

The woman who had greeted us stepped up beside him and then followed him into the room.

"I'm Doctor Richards and this is my wife. Anna." he said. "So, what happened?"

"We had an accident," Harley began. "Two ways in a pickup truck harassed us on my motorcycle, and I spilled on a gavel driveway trying to get away."

"Um-hmm," Doctor Richards said, nodding as if he had expected it or had it happen at least once a day.

"She's hurt her ankle," Harley continued.

Doctor Richards stood in front of me and looked down at my ankle and then at me.

"Hurts to beat the band. huh?"

"Yes sir," I said.

"Okay, just pull yourself back a bit more and let's get that foot up where I can see it. Got to get closer to things these days." he continued, smiling at Harley and then at me. Harley helped me back on the table until my foot was up. With very, very gentle fingers, the doctor undid the laces of my sneaker and took it off. He brought down the sock and peeled it away, his fingers barely touching my skin.

"Wiggle your toes for me," he asked and I did. "Any pain?"

"Not much, a little," I said.

He studied my ankle. "Did you land on it?" "No, I rolled over on it, I think."

"I see," he said.