I meet Deputy Hollow's gaze for a moment, uneasily remembering that glimpse of flame behind his eyes my first day in town. I may not understand the conversation, but there are undercurrents I can easily taste. It seems likely that certain parties are being less than entirely forthcoming with Deputy Hollow. Most interesting. It may be that the institution of law (and by extension law enforcement) in Excolo is simply too informal to command respect. Then again, it may be that some of those assembled have something to hide.

And in a strange way, I don't have to include myself in that count. I conceal or distort almost everything about myself, but my local history is pristine. All my skeletons are buried elsewhere. It's my favorite part of traveling, the unburdened shoulders of a new beginning. Before, as always, more skeletons collect. And then moving on once more. Ad infinitum.

I shift to sit cross-legged on the wet grass, and withdraw my small book and a sharpened bit of charcoal from the inside pocket of my slicker. Sheltering it from the rain, I sketch the area in detail. Blast patterns. Debris. First an overhead look, and then again in isometric. I note the positions of each assembled with an 'x,' and write what names I know in the margins.

And then I turn the page and begin sketching faces.