"I wish that were true," Morgan said. "They're going downhill. On the other hand, if they weren't, I wouldn't have any work."
"Rot," Joe said, "your enemy."
"Neglect," Morgan said.
They finished breakfast and hauled Joe's footlocker to the barn. "I'm going to have a book shop when I retire," Morgan said.
"The fortress and the cork," Joe said, putting down one end of the footlocker in a room filled with books. "Two good strategies: strong walls or travel light, bob up and down in the heavy weather."
"You always did travel light," Morgan said, "but you probably don't bob as well as you did." Joe hopped on both feet to demonstrate his buoyancy.
"Thanks for the reminder." Departures required gallantry. "Good eggs.
Listen, if you get a chance . . . give Daisy my love. Tell her
nothing's changed." Morgan nodded and they walked out to the truck.
"Take care of yourself," Joe said. "Hang in there."
"Good luck," Morgan said.
Joe drove down the mountain in the rain. When he reached Route 212, he turned towards Phoenicia. His old high school district covered a thousand square miles; half an hour later as he crossed its western boundary, he felt a twinge of nostalgia and relief. It was like graduating again; his mind was free to drift forward.
At tech school in the Air Force, he used to spend Friday and Saturday nights in the BX with a guy named Shannon. The BX was always jammed with G.I.'s drinking cheap beer and eating French fries. One man tried to keep up with the empties and the dirty dishes. He was bald, slow moving, friendly, and particular. His cart was organized to hold as much as possible on each trip. It seemed like the original dead end job, but he did it well, never flustered, taking pride in his cart and the tables that were clean for moments. He told Joe once that he was saving money to buy tools so that he could help in his friend's garage.