And Rosie snapped, "If I told you how I feel, that other you in the week after next would laugh his fool head off. So shut up!" Things were bad, and they got no better. For nearly a week, Rosie rode everywhere with Sam in his truck. They acted in a manner which Rosie's parents would in theory have approved, but didn't even begin to believe in. They did nothing the world could not have watched without their being embarrassed, and they said very little that all the world would not have been bored to hear. It must have been the eleventh of July when they almost snapped at each other and Rosie said bitterly, "Let me drive a while. I need to put my mind on something that it don't make me mad to think about!" "Go ahead," Sam invited gloomily. He stopped the truck and got out the door. "I don't look for any happiness in this world any more, anyway." He went around to the other side of the truck while she slid to the driver's seat. "Tomorrow's going to be the twelfth," she said. "Do you realize that?" "I hadn't given it much thought," admitted Sam, "but what's the difference?" "That's the day where the other you was when he called you up the first time." "That's right," said Sam morbidly. "It is." "And so far," added Rosie, jamming her foot viciously down on the accelerator, "I've kept you honest. If you change into a scoundrel between now and tomorrow--" She changed to second gear. The truck jerked and bounced. "Hey!" cried Sam. "Watch your driving!" "Don't you tell me how to drive!" "But if I get killed before tomorrow--" * * * * * Rosie changed gear again, but too soon. The truck bucked, and she jammed down the accelerator again, and it almost leaped off the road. "If you get killed before tomorrow," raged Rosie, "it'll serve you right! I've been thinking and thinking and thinking. And even if I stop you from being a crook, there'll always be that--other you--knowing everything we say and do." She was hitting forty miles an hour and speeding up. "So there'd still be no use. No hope, anyway." She sobbed, partly in fury and partly in grief. And the roadway curved sharply just about there and she swung the truck crazily around it--and there was a car standing only halfway off the road. [Illustration] Sam grabbed for the steering wheel, but there wasn't time. The light half-truck, still accelerating, hit the parked car with the noise of dozens of empty oil-drums falling downstairs. The truck slued around, bounced back, and then it charged forward and slammed into the parked car a second time. Then it stalled. [Illustration] Somebody yelled at Sam. He got out of the truck, looking at the damage and trying to figure out how it was that neither he nor Rosie had been killed, and trying worriedly to think how he was going to explain to the telephone company that he'd let Rosie drive.