Eleven Hours by Paullina Simons

the way, Lord, help him find the gate that leads into life.
    â€œLet’s have it,” Lyle said.
    â€œOkay, third clue.” Didi had hoped for more time. “How about if I give you the first initial? Would that be a good clue?”
    â€œIf I guess it, yes,” he said, unsmiling. “If I don’t guess it, no.”
    The words struck at her heart.
    â€œOkay, here goes. Remember the other clues too, though. The initial is D.”
    â€œD,” he said. “D. A famous character in an old play, loved by one man, harmed by another—was she harmed?”
    â€œYes,” Didi said. “She was harmed.”
    Lyle scratched his head. He was still at ninety. Didi was still thirsty. Please, she was praying. A police officer or water.
    She wasn’t certain she’d opt for the police officer.
    â€œWell, I don’t know!” Lyle exploded, hitting his fist against the steering wheel.
    Didi stared at him, her eyes widening.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about! I gave you a modern-day country singer, you’re giving me some crap about a man loving her and harming her, an old play, I mean, what the hell!” He slowed down a little, both in driving and in language, and glared at Didi. “You’re not giving me good clues,” he said. “In fact, you’re giving me very bad clues. And I think,” he said slowly, “that you’re giving me these bad clues on purpose, on purpose so I would lose to you, because you want to seem smarter than me.”
    She shook her head violently, pushing herself into the door. “No, that’s not true. Look, I’ll tell you my name.”
    He hit the wheel hard with his fist. She sucked in her breath, and for some reason that made him laugh.
    â€œI’m glad you think it’s funny,” she said.
    â€œListen, it’s funny that you think you’re so smart.” Now his laugh sounded hollow and miserable. “Hah! If you think you’re so smart,” he said, rubbing her thigh hard with his knuckle, “how come you’re sitting here in my car then? What makes you so smart? That you know plays and I don’t? Miss Smarty Pants!” Reaching over, he pulled her away from the door and closer to him. “Sit right here with me. I don’t want you to sit so far away. We wouldn’t want you to fall out, would we?”
    â€œNo,” Didi whimpered, sweat running down her face.
    â€œNo, that’s right. Now, you’re going to sit right here, and you’re going to give me clues till I guess your name. Okay?”
    She adjusted herself on the bench seat and couldn’t help but move slightly away from him. “Okay,” she whispered. “It’s just that I’ve never known anyone with my name, no one modern. It’s hard for me to think of modern things. Listen, do you go to the movies?”
    â€œNot much. Why?”
    â€œBecause there was a movie made of this play recently. Maybe a year or two ago. With Laurence Fishburne. Do you know it?”
    â€œWho is Laurence Fishburne? Never heard of him. What was the name of the movie?”
    â€œIf I tell you, you’ll know her name. That’s like you saying who was Julia Roberts briefly married to. You’ll know right away.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Give me the clue.”
    â€œOkay. The name of the movie,” said Didi, happy to be ending the charade, “was Othello. ”
    There was a silence. The engine sounded loud and unhealthy, going at eighty. A blue truck whizzed by. Didi noticed a barn and a blue sign that said, GAS-FOOD-LODGING. 5 MILES.
    Lyle said nothing for several moments. And then he said, “ Othello? What kind of a damn clue is that? I never heard of Othello. ”
    â€œNo? You’ll never guess my name then. Never. It’s the only clue I can give you. Let me tell you my name—”
    â€œNo!” he shouted. “I’m going to