Harlan slammed the small brass door shut and tucked the stack of envelopes under his arm before locking the box with a sigh. A trip to the post office normally relaxed Harlan. He took comfort in the cold austerity of the too-high ceilings. The marble and granite lent strength and permanence and steadiness. This particular morning, even after four trips to the fence, he found himself still completely without answers to his questions about Joe and that Mexican and his niece"s bent for art school. All three were connected and he was going to figure out how. Walking into the Truck Stop Café, he was itching to hold a sit-down with Joe. He settled into his normal seat in the corner, turned the empty cup mouth up in the saucer, and waited.
Each time the bells clattered against the door, he would
