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er guitar alone。 Again； she spoke：
Snow now pletely covered the windshield and windows； forming a white curtain which hid the interior of the car； and any activity within … if there was any to be seen。 No sound issued from the car； no vibration disturbed the snow on its doors。 The animals were puzzled； but delighted： perhaps a human understood at last。
The C sharp walked down to B again； but this time it belonged to a clean； simple G chord； supported by a steel guitar and the trapping of bluegrass； a paratively happy sound that only lasted for the first four lines as that voice … that voice！ … picked up the song again； etching us with its words：
Don't worry now。 I'm goin'
Any minute now； I'll be goin'
Leave the car
It isn't far to walk now
Any minute now； I'll be going
（slowing now； an electric guitar leading into an achingly repeated C … E minor … A progression that went nowhere）
Soon as I can find a place I want to go
Soon as I can find a thing l want to do
Soon as I can find someone I want to know
Or think of something interesting and new
（a sudden optimistic jump into the key of F。。。）
I mean； I could make it easy to the next town
（twisting crazily into E flat。。。）
But what am I to do when I get there？
（inexorably back to C。。。）
That's what I made this odyssey to find out：
Two thousand miles and still I just don't care。。。
（a copula：）
Is it worthwhile to go on looking？
We wanted to cry； wanted to shout； wanted to run forward with a hundred reasons for living； find some way to heal the hurt in that voice； and no one made a sound。 Alone again with her guitar； Bobbi Joy wove that disharmonic tapestry of hurting notes that was already being as familiar to us as the taste that a bad dream always has in the cold morning； and as she began to speak again； not a muscle flickered in her ebony face； as though her scar was all the expression she would ever need or be allowed。
The snow began to drift。
In a minute … or an hour … the car was half … buried in a heavy white winter coat of wet snow。 The animals were already beginning to forget about the car。 It had not shown movement in so long that they were ing to regard it as part of their environment … of less interest than the tattered 1892 edition of the Denver Record pinned under a rock； which at least still fluttered occasionally in the wind。
For the memory of the animals is short； and the years are long； and they have found that very little is worth puzzling over for very long。
And still； the snow fell。。。
This time she stayed with the C sharp； built an A chord around it； and was joined only by harpsichord and bass。 There was no ambiguity to this part： a simple； mournful melody that had no change … ups； no surprises； just the quiet calm of resignation； if unheeded defeat。
Sort of friendly here inside the car
Even though it's gettin' kinda cold
Haven't stirred； or said a word； in hours
I believe it's gettin' awful cold
In the glove partment； there's a small flask：
Little Irish whiskey for the soul
But reachin' out to get it seems a great task
And anyway； it isn't all that cold
It might keep me warm
But it just ain't worth the trouble。。。
Her shoulders seemed to slump； and … the droning background of her guitar took on a terrible finality。
There was no longer a Dodge by the side of U。S。 40； just a drift like many others； peaceful and horribly cold。 A faint illumination began to expose mysteries of snow…sculpture hummocks and valleys of white。 But for the swirling haze； you might have said it was dawn。
The car was pletely hidden from sight … and so； in caves； holes and shelters； were the animals。 But they no longer remembered the car。。。 and at least in their dwellings were some signs of life。
And with shattering unexpectedness she slammed into E major； driving with horns and bass and moog and drums in a frenzied hallelujah chorus that dared you to begin hoping again。 Surely that throbbing beat was a heart starting to beat； surely that energy was purposeful！
We sat up straighter； and crossed our fingers。
I've got it！
There's something that I want to do
A thing that seems to have some kind of point
I've got some grass； enclosed in glass
Here inside my shirt
Think I'm gonna roll myself a joint
（the bottom fell out of voice and arrangement； scared away by solemnity and a trembling echo。。。）
A plicated operation … might disturb the peace
But it ought to warm me just as well as drink
So it's something worth the trouble and it's gonna help me find
A reason to get out of here
I think
（a copula）
Now where did I put all those Zig…Zags？
Again that C sharp rang out； shocking return to inevitability； and the droning guitar cut the rug out from under us。 Helpless； not knowing whether the music or the words frustrated us more； we waited in fearful silence for what had to e next。 And for the last time the expressionless voice spoke：
Two weeks later； when a road … crew dug out the car； they found inside it the frozen corpse of a young woman； incredibly tranquil and serene。 Between the blue and rigid lips was the pencil…thin column of ash from a hand…rolled cigarette； which had burned undisturbed until it had seared the lips and gone out。 The crew…boss silenced his men； radioed a call to the State Police with remarkable calm。。。
And then went home and made savage love to his wife。
And that damned unnerving guitar fell to pieces on the E minor sixth； as resolved as it was ever going to be。
The silence persisted for a full minute before anyone so much as thought to look into his drink for any answers that might be skulking around in there。 And when we did； we found none there； so we tried looking at each other。 And when that failed； we turned as one to regard the stranger who had brought us this vision。 His hand was back at his side； now； and the fireplace was back where it belonged； naively attempting to warm a room that had gone as cold as death 。 。
。
〃That； gentlemen；〃 he said simply； 〃is Bobbi Joy。〃
No one said a word。 I saw Doc Webster groping desperately for a wisecrack to break the spell； and it just wasn't there。 The stranger had been right： now that it was over we could scarcely believe that it had happened； scarcely believe that we were still alive。
〃Now that you know her；〃 the stranger went on； 〃you're ready to hear her story； what made her what she is and what I hope to do about it。〃
Bobbi Joy （the Meddler continued） was born Isadora Brickhill in the back seat of a gypsy cab somewhere in Harlem； in the year 1952。 I can see by your scowls； gentlemen； that I don't have to explain what that means。 She didn't even have Billie Holiday's classic two choices … no one was hiring maids in those days。 By the training and education she received； she was prepared only for the most basic trade there is： by 1966 little Isadora was an experienced and； if rumor is