“Least that’s what I been told about you,” the man went on. Evenwrite lifted the veined bumps of his eyes to the wheedling voice and tried to gauge the success of his visit. He had personally driven all the way from Wakonda to get this report. He’d wanted to test himself on this man before dealing directly with Draeger. It had taken him nearly an hour to find the flunky’s home in Portland’s confusing street system. He’d been in the city only once before, and he’d been so furious and outraged then that he could remember it only as a red blur. That was the time his teammates at Florence had taken a collection to pay his bus fare to the Shrine All-State Game, giving him the ticket and consoling him, “You shoulda been picked, Floyd. You was a better fullback. You was screwed.” That screwing—and the resulting charity—had been brought back by the sight of the river and the lights of Portland, and the red blur as well. He’d become lost time and again, trying to follow the written directions through this blur. And he’d had no time to stop for supper. And the stale beer burned his guts. And his eyes stung; it had been a struggle camouflaging his shamefully slow reading speed by making it seem instead to be shrewd caution. And his back hurt from sitting so straight to keep his belly in. But looking now at the man’s face, he decided he’d handled it. He could tell the man was impressed by this first encounter with the District Coordinator from Wakonda. Impressed and cowed just enough. Deliberately Floyd put his beer can back on the table and wiped his hand on his thigh. “No,” he said. “That ain’t—isn’t exactly correct.” He spoke with distinguished resonance; someday he would speak to a press conference this way. “No, I went to high school at Florence, a town about ten miles south of Wakonda. I didn’t move to Wakonda till after high school. What you probably heard”— he paused, furrowing his brow to remember—“is we both played offensive fullback and defensive ends on our . . . respective teams, and all four years played right across from each other. Even at the Shrine All-State game.” That was a little risky, but he doubted if the flunky was acquainted enough with sports to realize that he could not possibly have made All-State if Hank had, both being from the same district. He took a quick look at his watch, then stood up. “Well, I got a long drive.” The union fink came off his stool by the sink and extended his hand. Evenwrite, who had once been compelled to run fifty yards down a hill to wash his paw in a creek before a visiting union dignitary would deign to touch it, now looked at the flunky’s hand as though he saw bugs between the fingers. “You done real good,” he said, then left the house. Outside he buttoned the top button of his trousers and complimented himself: pretty slick, that maneuver, pretty bygod smooth—leaving the little runt standing there with his paw stuck out and his eyes batting. Yep, he’d handled the whole business pretty smooth. Impression is the ticket. Teach ’em respect; impress ’em; show ’em you’re just as good, just as big as they are. Bigger! But when he paused to rub his eyes again before getting into his car, his hand felt very small and limp. And stranger than ever. The fingers not his own. Somebody else’s. They fumble after the car keys, nervously. The chain snaps, spraying keys into the streetlight. Jenny searches the shelves for her Saint Christopher. Gives up and instead mixes herself a drink, then goes to sit and look out through the spiderweb that laces her little shack’s lone window. Squinting, she studies the sky. A full moon leans desperately against the landward rush of small clouds. She watches, sighing. The screen buzzes in the afternoon. Someone offers a dime to the bubbling jukebox. Hank Snow comes highballing out: Mr. Engineer, take that throttle in hand ’Cause this rattler’s the fastest in the southern land. Keep movin’ on. . . . The old boltcutter props the rim of his glass of port against his lower lip and tips in the wine, watching grayly from the dusty gloom. The postman crosses a bright green lawn in New Haven, holding the card. The old house, shimmering and tiny under the dawn sky, like a pebble beneath an abalone shell, opens to emit two figures in logging garb. “He can raise one hell of a fuss for an invalid,” Hank said, shaking his head. “Invalid? Why, you’d have to cut off both legs to invalid him!” Joe Ben laughed, delighted by the stamina the old man had shown in his breakfast antics. “Oh yeah, Henry ain’t one to let a bad hand make him turn ............