After returning home, Schiller moved the foosball table—which he had never been very good at assembling and which had been blown to pieces—to the side of the backyard garden. After putting together the frame and base, he placed the remaining parts and tools inside, turning it into a temporary workbench.
There were still enough metal parts, and the tools had not suffered much wear, but he was short on fishing line and rope. So Schiller texted Martin, telling him to bring plenty of consumable supplies within half an hour.
There were still important matters to handle tonight. Schiller changed into boots in the garden Tool Room, then took the plastic raincoat hanging on the porch and put it on.
The weather cooperatively began to drizzle. Schiller pushed open the backyard gate and watched the asphalt road ahead reflect the streetlights beneath the rain.
At the end of the street, a flashlight beam flickered in and out of sight. Schiller stood by the roadside for a while before hearing someone call from that direction.
"Hey, sir? What's wrong?! Is something the matter?"
A figure ran through the rain toward him. It was Clay, the one who had just knocked on doors to compile a list of residents.
"Nothing. My car broke down, but the repairman can't come because of the weather. I'm waiting for a friend to bring me some parts."
"What's wrong with the car?" Clay dimmed his flashlight and asked, "Do you know how to fix cars?"
"I don't. My friend does. He should be here soon."
As he spoke, headlights appeared at the far end of the rain curtain. A somewhat battered vintage car stopped by the road. Martin got out, carrying a large bag and struggling to open his umbrella before waving at Schiller.
"Is that your