This was why Roger Tomlinson signed up for when he took the temporary Census job. He needed a summer away from Brown and his parents. He was meeting people outside his milieu.

He regarded the shack. The front porch was festooned with cast-off chairs and a weight set. It smelled of urine and stale beer.

A rangy man emerged from the shack.

“Hello Sir. I’m with the Census. Your name is Mister…”

“Snopes.”

“Really?!?!”

“Naw. Just shittin’ you college boy. Lemme ask, you read any James Dickey?”

“No sir.”

“Good. That’ll make our visit more interestin’.”