He was looking down at her mailbox, at the address there, nodding his head the way a person does who has found what he is looking for and now has no idea what he is going to do with it. At first Joanie thought he was just some tramp who had wandered a bit far from the downtown bars and rehabs. He looked to be a large man who had shrunken to skin and bones. He had shaggy blonde-turned-mostly-white hair and a neatly trimmed still almost blonde beard. He had a guitar and a pack slung from each narrow shoulder. It was his hunched back and the guitar that began to suggest that this person was a bit more than the usual vagrant. Then he turned his head, eyed the rusted Civic, turned his pale blue eyes toward the door and grimaced. It was Weasel.

She had not seen him…