Some of the doors he kicks in for the hell of it. Not this one. Plain battered wood, it gives him a twinge—recognition, nostalgia. That little tweak the park gives to circumstance. He turns the handle and enters, leaving the door ajar: see who might turn up.

No one's home. William lights the lamp in the corner, begins assembling his impression of the absent warden by its soft light. He brushes off the hat, turns it over in his hands. Inspects the spurs. Listens to his own boots knock against the floor. When he uncovers the map and pictures, he spreads them out on the bed—leans over it, one knee planted in the mattress, the lamp raised over his head.