HE TURNED the key. The wipers stopped. The rain still fell. The state had been dry—“drought city,” as John David says—but that afternoon, the clouds had opened and so he’d pulled over to watch the rain. Much in the same way he’d done many years before, back when he was still a senior in high school. Then, he’d driven a 1988 Ford Ranger, a hand-me-down several times over. They called it the Silver Bullet—The Bullet for short—even though there was nothing bullet about it. And on those days the rain squelched chances for a practice or a game, he’d cut The Bullet’s motor, watch the rain dribble fat beads down the glass from the maroon-colored interior. Today, life is different. The Silver Bullet is gone, laid to rest—replaced by a Volkswagen Passat, a dad vehicle, too practical for a name. But on this day, many years removed, he took five minutes, inside looking out, same as he’d always done, and watched the rain come down.