Ages seem to have passed before I see flashes of a torchlight heading my way, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of footsteps. I wait with bated breath, bracing myself for the worst.
A man of uncertain age in a crumbled uniform halts a few feet away and surveys the scene. The beam of his torchlight lingers momentarily on my wife, too.
“Any problem?” he asks in a low tone.
I tell him.
He asks me to lift the hood. Bending over the engine he fiddles for a few minutes with God knows what and straightens up.
“Start the car, please.”
And the engine comes to life instantly!
Even as I thank him and take out my wallet, he starts walking away. He doesn’t respond to my call to stop and soon merges with the darkness.
“I had no doubt my prayers would be answered,” my wife declares as I start the car.
“But that was probably just a nice man going home after a day’s work.”
“So late in this godforsaken place?” She asks with a derisive laugh.
I don’t want to challenge her faith. An angel in disguise or a good Samaritan, the least I can do is not to grudge him a halo.