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Apologize to Mr. McCord for screaming. He has ears, just like you do, and you’re going to deafen him. And stop pointing. I can see him.”
    “Enthusiasm is good for my career, ma’am.” His ears were still ringing. He resisted an impulse to twist a finger in one to see whether the eardrum was intact.
    “I’m sorry for screaming, Mr. McCord,” said young Annalise.
    “ What? ” he teased, cupping his ear.
    Mother and daughter laughed. Albeit a little giddily.
    “We often watch repeats in the afternoon of your show, Mr. McCord. That’s how Annalise knows you.”
    It was how nearly everybody knew him, if they did. Repeats of a show that lasted seven outrageously popular years and had ended a decade ago but lived on in quite a few markets at various times of day. He thought he looked quite a bit different now; but then again, when millions of people had stared at you week after week for quite a few years, anonymity was kind of out of the question. His eyes, anyone would tell him, were unmistakable. An indie band out of Minneapolis had even scored a minor hit with “Eyes Like Tennessee.”
    “Say the thing you always said on TV, Mr. McCord. Will you please please pleeeeease ?” Annalise folded her hands and implored him.
    “Sorry, sweetie, I’ll get in trouble from my bosses for saying that word outside the television.” He winked.
    He invented new reasons not to say “that thing” every time he was asked.
    He would die happy if he never had to say that word again. For so many reasons.
    Annalise was apparently satisfied with this explanation. Kids always related to getting in trouble for saying the wrong thing.
    “Would it be rude to trouble you for an autograph?” her mother asked. “It’s just that we enjoy your show so much. We’ll hang it on the wall in the shop.”
    “No trouble at all. That is, if I can trouble you for the name of a mechanic, and maybe the name of a local hotel. My truck made some ominous noises on the way and I don’t think it’ll be smart to drive it.”
    “Ominous. O-M-I-N-O-U-S,” Annalise said triumphantly.
    “Wow!” He held out his fist and Annalise bumped it enthusiastically with her own little fist. “Impressive!”
    “Impressive. I-M-P-R—”
    “That’s enough spelling for now, Annalise.” But her mother was glowing. “Um, Ernie Di Giulio is probably your best bet for a mechanic. He’s way out on Kilburn Road, but the bus goes right by his garage and service station.” The woman squinted and pointed down the street; near the swinging palm of the palm reader was a pretty little bench and a post with a sign on it, which was clearly the bus stop. “And the Angel’s Nest is the only bed and breakfast in town. It’s actually just a block away from Ernie’s, straight up the hill from it.”
    The hill she meant was apparent; the street wound up and up into the mountains—if he squinted, he could make out the rectangle of a white highway billboard. A guy was clambering over it in preparation of changing its message. Heaven forbid a moment should pass without advertising.
    “I don’t suppose this town has a taxi service?”
    He was pretty sure he knew the answer. He was just curious about what she’d say.
    “Of course we do!” she said. “But I think he’s taking Mrs. Gordimer to the grocery store right now. There’s a sale on chicken thighs. She doesn’t have a car and she just got her Social Security check.”
    This was pretty much the answer he’d expected. He smiled. “Guess I timed it wrong.”
    “I don’t know if they’re full up at the Angel’s Nest, but I’m afraid that’s your only option right in town. If you intend to stay awhile.”
    He followed the direction of her pointing finger, still aimed toward the hills, but his eye was drawn up and beyond it, up past the canyon woolly and dark with pines and redwoods and oaks and manzanita and other California trees he intended to learn the names of, and several rugged peaks. He knew, he