He turned toward the sound. A pair of figures were walking up the road from the direction of town, sharing an umbrella. He recognized them even before they waved, Tom and Clara Miller, who ran the hardware shop by the post office. They looked absurdly clean against the mud-smeared landscape.
“Good grief, what are you doing out here?” Tom called, laughter in his voice. “You get lost on your own delivery route?” Owen forced a weak grin. “Something like that,” he said, stepping aside to reveal the slope. “There’s a dog here. Been stuck since the rain started.”