He must have fallen asleep while waiting for a left turn arrow and rolled forward; he awoke already in motion and braked in a panic halfway down a street that hadn’t been there when he had stopped.
The old-timey constable — right out of central casting, handlebar moustache and all — stepped up to his window and asked, “Having some trouble, sir?”
“I guess… I fell asleep.”
“How far do you have to go?”
“Maybe twenty miles?”
“Well, Mrs. Bea’s Inn is right there, better to go the rest of the way in the morning.”
It seemed reasonable enough at the time.
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