Tonehe reason I am raising my voice," I said, vainly tryingto control it, "is that it's after noon; I've got sweatrunning down my arms, my back, my chest, and all overmy face. I've spent the last two hours trying to get my truckoff the edge of the hillside ten miles out of town so it, and I,wouldn't go careening down into a creek. There was nohouse for miles in either direction. If some guy with apickup hadn't come along I'd still be there." I glared at myboss, Mr. Bobbs, the manager of the Henderson Pacific Gasand Electric office. "I am submitting a request for repair of the truck, MissHaskell. That is procedure." In contrast to my sweat-stainedmeter-reader uniform, Mr. Bobbs's tan summer suit wasdry and crisp. And here in his windowless cubicle, themanager's office, it was almost cool, unlike the ninety-seven degrees outside. I swallowed, using the time to control my anger.Slowly, I said, "This is hardly the first time a meter readerhas been stuck on a back road. Suppose one of us were inan accident. He could be injured. It could be days beforeanyone discovered him." Mr. Bobbs shifted his gaze to the clock behind me, si-lently stating that it was his lunch hour, too. "There are a lot of dangerous people in those hills.They have guns. There are marijuana growers; the lastthing they want is someone in a uniform coming onto theirland. They'v6 been known to shoot first and check outwhich department you work for after." "Are you telling me you want to work only town routes?"