he road. When I was done I carefully buried my
leavings, as my dad had taught me before he died, when I was a sprat no older than the
fisherman who had named the road for me.
Around two o‘clock I came to a big field on my left. There was a stone wall at the far end
of it, running roughly northwest I walked back to it, squelching over the wet ground, and
began to walk the wall. A squirrel scolded me from an oak tree.
Three-quarters of the way to the end, I saw the rock. No mistake. Black glass and as
smooth as silk. A rock with no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. For a long time I just
looked at it, feeling that I might cry, for whatever reason. The squirrel had followed me,
and it was still chattering away. My heart was beating madly.
When I felt I had myself under control, I went to the rock, squatted beside it - the joints in
my knees went off like a double-barrelled shotgun - and let my hand touch it It was real. I
didn‘t pick it up because I thought there would be anything under it; I could just as easily
have walked away without finding what was beneath. I certainly had no plans to take it
away with me, because I didn‘t fed it was mine to take - I had a feeling that taking that
rock from the field would have been the worst kind of theft. No, I only picked it up to
feel it better, to get the heft of the thing, and, I suppose, to prove its reality by feeling its
satiny texture against my skin.
I had to look at what was underneath for a long time. My eyes saw it, but it took a while
for my mind to catch up. It was an envelope, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag to keep
away the damp. My name was written across the front in Andy‘s clear script.
I took the envelope and left the rock where Andy had left it, and Andy‘s friend before
him.
Dear Red,
If you‘re reading this, then you‘re out. One way or another, you‘re out. And If you‘ve
followed along this far, you might be willing to come a little further. 1 think you
remember the name of the town, don‘t you? I could use a good man to help me get my
project on wheels.
Meantime, have a drink on me - and do think it over. I will be keeping an eye out for you.
Remember that hope is a good thing, Red, maybe the best of things, and no good thing
ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.
Your friend, Peter Stevens
I didn‘t read that letter in the field. A kind of terror had come over me, a need to get away
from there before I was seen. To make what may be an appropriate pun, I was in terror of
being apprehended.
I went back to my room and read it there, with the smell of old men‘s dinners drifting up
the stairwell to me - Beefaroni, Ricearoni, Noodleroni. You can bet that whatever the old
folks of America, the ones on fixed incomes, are eating tonight, it almost certainly ends
in roni.
I opened the envelope and read the letter and then I put my head in my arms and cried.
With the letter there were twenty new fifty-dollar bills.
And here I am in the Brewster Hotel, technically a fugitive from justice again - parole
violation is my crime. No one‘s going to throw up any roadblocks to catch a criminal
wanted on that charge, I guess - wondering what I should do now.
I have this manuscript I have a small piece of luggage about the size of a doctor‘s bag that
holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a five, three ones, and assorted
change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this tablet of paper and a deck of smokes.
Wondering what I should do.
But there‘s really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living
or get busy dying.
First I‘m going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I‘m going to buckle it up,
grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I‘m going to walk
uptown to a bar and put that five dollar bill down in front of the ba

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