Extreme Measures

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The sign, painted in uneven black letters on a two-foot length of weathered side, read: CHARITY, UTAH. POP. 381. It was pocked by bullet holes and wedged upside down between two dense juniper bushes.

Marilyn Colson would have missed the sign if she hadn't tripped over a root and fallen heavily onto the hard, dusty desert ground. The discovery distracted her from the newest in a growing array of bruises and scrapes, and kept her-at least momentarily-from another outburst at her husband.

Their four-year marriage was on the ropes even before they blew their vacation on this latest monument to Richard's self-centeredness.

Now, as far as she was concerned, it was down for the count. The Jeep he had insisted an renting for their "four-wheel journey to nowhere and everywhere," the Jeep that Richard said he could repair with his eyes closed, had broken down God-only-knew how many miles from nowhere. And of course, the part that had gone was the only one Richard hadn't counted on. Some psychologist! The man could never see any point of view but his own.

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