Talk to Nicely.

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The car suspension squeaked loudly, and my wife gasped as we went over a boulder which

was embedded in the grassy road, scraping the car's undercarriage.

Jagged chunks of rock were everywhere along this stretch,

looking as if they could pop a tire if we went over them too quickly.

The road had been more than a little bumpy, but the cabin wasn't far off.

According to our directions, it was only another half mile or so,

and I had already caught glimpses of the lake through the trees.

I felt like leaving a complaint on the Airbnb account we had rented this cottage from,

and we hadn't even gotten there yet.

The directions had been atrocious, and this hardly even seemed like a road anymore.

The pavement had turned to gravel a long way back.

And after that, it had become hard-packed dirt, then grass,

with two barely visible tire ruts being the only indication of a road.

At least we saw a few cottages, indicating that we were on the right path.

We came around a sharp bend and suddenly had to slam hard on the brakes.

There was a woman standing in the middle of the road.

She was in her 60s or 70s by the looks of her.

Her graying hair hung down over most of her face,

...