No wonder she had that fender-bender that started everything at the Dairy Queen.

“Okay, slow down, then. That next street there, with the used car for sale on the corner? That’s Emma Jean’s street. I remember from one time Sally and I gave her a ride from bingo.’’

As we approached, I read the street sign out loud: “Lofton Road.’’

“That’s it, Mace.’’ She leaned forward, peering out the windshield. “Let’s drive by to see if she’s okay.’’

I downshifted to take the corner.

“I’m worried about her, Mace. She sure didn’t seem right when she was swinging that tire iron at church.’’

Who would?

“There it is, Mace. The blue one. About half way down, on the left.’’

I slowed, and turned into Emma Jean’s driveway. Her cat-shaped mailbox was painted in Siamese colors. The cat’s black-tipped tail was the flag, which was flipped up straight.

I continued up the drive, noting a gaggle of yard gnomes. The rose bushes needed attention. Only the most dedicated gardeners can grow roses in the Florida heat and mucky soil around Lake Okeechobee. Judging from the mold-spotted leaves and sparse blooms, Emma Jean lacked the necessary dedication.

There was no car in the open, metal-roofed carport. I pulled in and parked. Mama and I got out.

The sun had faded the house’s blue paint almost gray. The window curtains were drawn. Her screen door was shut, as was the solid wooden door behind that. Pink and white impatiens wilted in a pot on her porch. Mama leaned over to feel the soil. Shaking her head, she picked up a watering can and poured the contents on the flowers.

I knocked at the door. No answer. I pounded.

“Emma Jean? Are you there, darlin’?’’ Mama called at the window.

“Well, we know she was here fairly recently,’’ I said. “If that tail on her mailbox was up yesterday when the mail carrier came, he would’ve taken Emma Jean’s outgoing letters and flipped it back down.’’

Mama glanced out to the cat-shaped mailbox. “You know, I didn’t even think about that. There’s a reason you were top in your class at college, Mace.”

I opened the screen door and tried the knob on the door inside. Locked.

A Siamese cat, live, not the mailbox one, minced its way up the porch steps. It sniffed at Mama’s lemon-colored sandal, and then made a beeline to me. I’m an animal lover, but I’ve never been able to warm up to felines. And don’t the cats always know that? In a crowded room, they’ll bypass a dozen cat-lovers; ignore every outstretched hand; fail to recognize a chorus of “Here, kitty-kitty’s.’’ Then they’ll decide to make friends with me.

The cat entangled itself around my ankles, rubbing against my slacks. I lifted my boot to gently push it away. Meowing, the critter stared up with big blue eyes.

“I’ll be sneezing in about two seconds, Mama.’’ Did I mention I’m also allergic? “I’m going around to check the back.’’

The cat leapt off the porch and followed.

I looked in a big kitchen window, where the curtains were tied back. Dirty dishes sat in the sink; an afternoon Himmarshee Times was closed on the table. It had to have been there at least a day, since it was still too early for today’s delivery. The silent house looked empty, but undisturbed, like Emma Jean just ran out to do an errand.

Turning from the window, I nearly stumbled over my new best friend. The cat looked up as if to say, “Careful, Clumsy.’’

I scanned the backyard.

“Hey, what kind of car does Emma Jean drive?’’ I yelled around to the side garden, where Mama was pinching sooty leaves off the rose bushes.

“It’s a little one,’’ she shouted back. “Something foreign, like a Toyota or a Honda. Why?’’

“Because there’s a pickup parked back here, next to her shed. It’s white, and it looks old.’’

I stepped closer. The bed was rusted. It was empty, except for three crushed beer cans. I looked through the driver’s window. There wasn’t anything personal inside. Just a blue bench seat, upholstered in plastic with the stuffing showing through. Kneeling on the grass, I ran my hand over well-worn rubber tread.

“What are you doing down there, Mace?’’ Mama joined me, stepping as delicately as the cat across grass still wet with dew. Beads of water clung to the reinforced toe of her knee-high stocking.

“Nothing, really.’’ I trailed my fingers again over the tread before I stood and brushed off my pants. “I was just noticing how big the tires are on this old truck.’’

Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump.

My tires thumped over the wooden bridge at Himmarshee Park. No matter how bad the day, or how much work waits, driving over the little bridge always gives me a boost. Below, dark water swirled. Above, sunlight slanted through the feathery branches of cypress trees. I inhaled, breathing in the woodsy, organic aroma of the swamp.

Newcomers crinkle their noses and complain of the rotten-egg smell. It comes about as bacteria break down dead plants and animals in the water. That allows them to be consumed by other creatures; which in turn are eaten by larger critters. And so it goes.

To me, the muck and mud of the swamp smells like life itself.

I love the outdoors, but even I’ll admit there are better spots to be in the summer. The nearest coastal breeze is an hour east. If heat stroke doesn’t get you, the mosquitoes will. And park in the full sun, and your car seat will reward you with third-degree burns upon your return. Not surprisingly, our parking lot was nearly empty.

I pulled into the shade of a clump of Sabal palms. Grabbing my purse and two plastic bags full of Ollie’s chickens, I headed in to work.

The park’s office is built of cypress, with tall windows and a wraparound porch. The designer did a good job of making the structure look like it grew up in the woods. But to me, being stuck for too long inside any kind of building anywhere still feels like a trap.

Inside, a phone was affixed to my boss’ ear. Rhonda drummed the pink-polished fingers of her free hand on the arm of her chair. When she saw me in the doorway, she flexed her hand into a yak-yak-yak sign next to the phone cradled on her shoulder.

“Yes, Ma’am. I will tell Mace you called.’’ Rhonda’s fingers hovered over the phone, ready to hang up. She leaned back again, listening. “No, as I mentioned to you, she’s had a bit of family difficulty in recent days.’’ She paused. “No, Ma’am, I don’t know what it’s like to have a panther stalking the pretty red birds that come to your bird feeder.’’