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It
blinked
,
and
then
it
began
to
tell
her
.
Town
’
s
Ford
Explorer
had
a
global
positioning
system
,
a
little
silver
box
that
listened
to
the
satellites
and
whispered
back
to
the
car
its
location
,
but
he
still
got
lost
once
he
got
south
of
Blacksburg
and
onto
the
country
roads
:
the
roads
he
drove
seemed
to
bear
little
relationship
to
the
tangle
of
lines
on
the
map
on
the
screen
.
Eventually
he
stopped
the
car
in
a
country
lane
,
wound
down
the
window
and
asked
a
fat
white
woman
being
pulled
by
a
wolfhound
on
its
early
morning
walk
for
directions
to
Ashtree
farm
.
She
nodded
,
and
pointed
and
said
something
to
him
.
He
could
not
understand
what
she
had
said
,
but
he
said
thanks
a
million
and
wound
up
the
window
and
drove
off
in
the
general
direction
she
had
indicated
.
He
kept
going
for
another
forty
minutes
,
down
country
road
after
country
road
,
each
of
them
promising
,
none
of
them
the
road
he
sought
.
Town
began
to
chew
his
lower
lip
.
"
I
’
m
too
old
for
this
shit
,
"
he
said
aloud
,
relishing
the
movie
-
star
world
-
weariness
of
the
line
.
He
was
pushing
fifty
.
Most
of
his
working
life
had
been
spent
in
a
branch
of
government
which
went
only
by
its
initials
,
and
whether
or
not
he
had
left
his
government
job
a
dozen
years
ago
for
employment
by
the
private
sector
was
a
matter
of
opinion
:
some
days
he
thought
one
way
,
some
days
another
.
Anyway
,
it
was
only
when
you
got
down
to
the
joes
on
the
street
that
anyone
seemed
to
assume
there
was
a
difference
.
He
was
on
the
verge
of
giving
up
on
the
farm
when
he
drove
up
a
hill
and
saw
the
sign
,
hand
painted
,
on
the
gate
.
It
said
simply
,
as
he
had
been
told
it
would
,
ASH
.
He
pulled
up
the
Ford
Explorer
,
climbed
out
and
untwisted
the
wire
that
held
the
gate
closed
.
He
got
back
in
the
car
and
drove
through
.
It
was
like
cooking
a
frog
,
he
thought
.
You
put
the
frog
in
the
water
,
and
then
you
turn
on
the
heat
.
And
by
the
time
the
frog
notices
that
there
’
s
anything
wrong
,
it
’
s
already
been
cooked
.
The
world
in
which
he
worked
was
all
too
weird
.
There
was
no
solid
ground
beneath
his
feet
;
the
water
in
the
pot
was
bubbling
fiercely
.
When
he
’
d
been
transferred
to
the
Agency
it
had
all
seemed
so
simple
.
Now
it
was
all
so
—
not
complex
,
he
decided
;
merely
bizarre
.
He
had
been
sitting
in
Mr
.
World
’
s
office
at
two
that
morning
,
and
he
had
been
told
what
he
was
to
do
.
"
You
got
it
?
"
said
Mr
.
World
,
handing
him
the
knife
in
its
dark
leather
sheath
.
"
Cut
me
a
stick
.
It
doesn
’
t
have
to
be
longer
than
a
couple
of
feet
.
"
