The storm worsened. The road narrowed into a tunnel of water. By the time he reached the farmhouse at the end of the route, the gutters were overflowing, the driveway a shallow stream. He parked beneath a tree, grabbed the parcel from the back, and sprinted to the porch.
A woman opened the door before he could knock. She was middle-aged, her apron damp, her hair pinned back in a hurry. “You made it through this?” she said, signing the receipt with a quick scrawl. “It’s been pouring since noon.”