The Geographer's Library

The Wind carried it in its womb,
the Earth is the nurse thereof.
Ileft the office just after Art drove off: I didn’t feel like discussing
death with Austell. I took the purposefully devised “aimless stroll”
route Art had shown me when I first got there: out the back door, down
the hill and into the woods, then along the stream until it crosses beneath
the gas station that marks the beginning of Lincoln Common. Right as I
reached the halfway point of the walk, it started raining: not a forgettable
drizzle that I could pretend was just mist, and not a rainstorm that I could
wait out under a tree. Steady, cold, late-autumn New England rain, the kind
that chills and darkens the world from log to sky. I stopped by my apartment,
which was just across from the gas station, changed clothes, put on a waterproof
jacket, and grabbed an umbrella.
When I got back, the office was (blessedly) empty and there was an envelope
addressed “Paul” on my desk. I opened it to find a paper with the New
Kendal County seal at the top and a yellow Post-it attached: “PT—See
attached if you’re interested. If not, do the Panda a favor and see attached
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