A light drizzle was falling as my sister Jill and I ran out of the Methodist Church, eager to get home and play with the presents that Santa had left for us and our baby sister, Sharon. 61 the street from the church was a Pan American gas station 62 the Greyhound bus stopped. It was closed for Christmas, but I noticed a family standing outside the 63 (lock) door, huddled under the narrow overhang in an attempt to keep dry. I wondered briefly 64 they were there but then forgot about them 65 I raced to keep up with Jill.
Once we got home, there was 66 (bare) time to enjoy our presents. We had to go off to our grandparents' house for our annual Christmas dinner. As we drove down the highway through town, I noticed that the family was still there, standing outside the 67 (close) gas station.
My father was driving very slowly down the highway. The closer we got to the turnoff for my grandparents' house, the 68 (slow) the car went. Suddenly, my father U-turned in the middle of the road and said, “I can't stand it!”
“What?” asked my mother.
“It's those people back there at the Pan Am, 69 (stand) in the rain. They've got children. It's Christmas. I can't stand it.”
When my father pulled into the service station, I saw that there were 70 of them: the parents and three children — two girls and a small boy.
My father rolled down his window. “Merry Christmas,” he said.