�The question is, will we ever get there?� said a teenage girl. �Mom�s asleep and Dad won�t ask for directions.�

�We�ve passed that gas station three times in the last hour,� added a slightly younger boy.

�All those gas stations look the same,� said their father.

�Do they all have a St. Bernard asleep in the front window?�

�I have to go to the bathroom,� said the youngest child.

�All right, I�ll stop,� muttered the dad, clenching both his teeth and the steering wheel. �I�ll even ask for directions. Just don�t wake up your mother until we reach the next town.�

�He doesn�t want her to know we�re lost,� said the teenager.

�I don�t want one more person telling me how to drive,� he said. �Now, everyone sit still and be quiet until I get back. Not a word.�

�But-�

�All right,� said the father, lifting his four-year-old son out of the vehicle. �Come on.�

The building was small and weathered, with gray wood showing through the white paint and a few shingles scattered on the ground. A huge St. Bernard dog was lying in the only window. The man who walked outside to greet them looked as old as the building.

�We�re closed.�

�I don�t want gas, only directions. Can my kid use your bathroom?�

�Don�t have a bathroom. Outhouse in back. You�re welcome to it.�

�Go ahead, Davie. O.K. How do I get to the next town?�

�Watch for snakes, kid,� said the old man, and began to give the father the most confusing directions he had ever heard. �...and turn left as soon as you hit the oil road, but mind you take the second left....�

�I�ll never remember all that,� groaned the father when the man finished.

�Well, how �bout my sending Addlebert with you, then?�

�Who�s Addlebert?�

�He is,� said the man, jerking his thumb toward the St. Bernard. �See? He knows we�re talking about him.� The dog raised his head and stared at them lazily.

�How could the dog help us?�

�Well, we get so many lost travelers �round here that I trained him to lead them to the next gas station. It�s on the main road, and you should be able to find your way from there.�

�I suppose so... Davie, get away from that dog!� The little boy had his arms around the St. Bernard, which was about three times his size.

�It�s alright. He won�t bite,� said the man.

�But he might have fleas.�

�None. I guarantee it.�

�O.K. Davie, get in the car. Let�s see what this pathfinding dog can do.�

�Good,� said the man. �Just do me one favor, will you?�

�What?�

�Don�t tell anyone at the next place that I sent you.�

�Why not? That�s a strange favor.�

�Never mind why not. Just don�t. Remember, it�s important.�

�I�ll remember,� said the father, climbing back into his station wagon. �Let�s go, Addlebert.�

The dog set out slowly, and the family followed in their car. It led them though several turns, and they soon had no more idea of the way back than they had of the way forward.

�You�re trusting a dog for directions?� said the girl. �That�s worse than not asking any.�

�I think we�re still going in circles,� said the older boy.

�Are we there yet?� said the younger one.

�Everybody shut up,� said the father. �It�s hard enough to follow the stupid dog, especially on a gravel road with the sun in my eyes. I don�t need a lot of backseat drivers. Just don�t talk until I give permission.�

Thirty minutes later, he pulled into a different gas station. This one was more modern, brightly lit, and sold candy bars and souvenirs.

�I might as well buy gas here,� said the father. �Everyone stay in the car.� He tripped over the St. Bernard when he got out to fill the tank.

�Go home,� he told it, when he was ready to pay. The dog followed him to the door.
�I said, go home.�

�Who are you talking to,� asked the attendant.

�That St. Bernard dog, of course. I followed him here, but now he�s following me.�

�I don�t see any dog.�

The father turned back toward the door, but the St. Bernard had disappeared. �He must have finally gone. He belongs to the man at the other gas station. I was lost, and he lent me the dog to find the way here.�

�Not the old gas station on the gravel road?�

�Yes, why?�

�It�s been closed ten years, ever since the owner died,� said the attendant, �and it�s been twelve years since it�s had a St. Bernard.�

The father paid his bill and went back to the car, walking quite a bit faster than he had on the way in. He drove a little faster, too.

�What�s the matter, Daddy?� asked one of the children. �Your knuckles are white.�

They were ten miles down the road before he could answer. �That dog...the old man...he said they were ghosts. I�ll never ask for directions again.�

Back at the gas station, the attendant had just answered the telephone. �Addlebert make it back yet? Really? Another one? Just act friendly and mysterious, and I�ll make their hair stand on end. Yeah, you can see the guy�s expression on my security tape.�