Thousand: Seven Hundred Seventy-Five

the end. He didn’t work his way here across the moor or the prairie or the desert. She would have seen him. From its perch on the back of a chair the magpie also is checking out the new arrival, turning its head one way and the other. “May I help you?” asks the guide, standing back up on the boardwalk, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt. The man scratches his chin, which has enough beard on it to be a start. He squints. “Have you misplaced your glasses?” For the first time the man orients on the speaker. “Ah,”