es. Somewhere off the main freeway. I'm nearly out of gas and feeling a little worried about finding a gas station. There's a small town nearby and I hope it has one but for some reason I decide to pull over on the outskirts of town where there's a siding in a wooded area. I walk the half-mile or so to the town, keeping a lookout for a gas station. (The logic of why I'm doing this on foot fails me now as I write this but maybe it has something to do with not wanting to be seen as a city slicker too abruptly entering the town.) I do indeed locate a gas station and make the discovery— a pleasantly surprising one— that gas is only forty-eight cents per gallon. Suddenly I realize I need to pee. There's a restroom in a kind of trailer behind the gas station. It's tiny, like an airplane toilet but with an even lower ceiling. I step inside and as I stoop and fumble with my fly I lose control and pee in my pants. A little. I don't think it's a lot. But when I look down to inspect, it's quite visible: a wet spot the size of my fist on the front of my light kaki shorts. I finish peeing, without wetting myself further and then ponder going back to my car and whether I have something to change into.

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I'm driving a scenic byway somewhere in the North Cascades. Somewhere off the main freeway. I'm nearly out of gas and feeling a little worried about finding a gas station. There's a small town nearby and I hope it has one but for some reason I decide to pull over on the outskirts of town where there's a siding in a wooded area. I walk the half-mile or so to the town, keeping a lookout