He walked on in the driving rain as if the day was clear and sunny.
Those in the cars on the highway slowed down, believing the man to be crazy or possessed. They are doing twenty and their windshield wipers still at ninety as they pass. Watch it. That guy is out of it. He might just step right into the road. You hit him and then you’re in for it. No end to the trouble. The rain ran from his brow and dropped from his chin, yet he walked on, his gaze fixed ahead, his face without show of emotion. His white shirt stuck to his chest, his trousers soaked and heavy. Do you think we should call somebody about that guy? Maybe nine-one-one? He could get hurt out here. You can’t see as it is and then you don’t know what he’ll do. He must be freezing. But the man did not stagger or sway. He walked on, singing. “You don’t know like I know. You don’t know like I know. . . .”