Outside the U-Haul place, one of the guys separates himself from the eager throng of people offering their services as itinerant movers, and approaches us while we wait for the truck.
We refuse him, with thanks, and he doesn't take it amiss, instead offering to give us his card, which we take. Katie moves to photograph it, and I ask if, once we've got it on her phone, if we should give it back so he can give it to someone else.
"Eh, it's probably fine," Katie says, showing me the "card," which is just a cut up piece of a neon green index card, on which he's written his name and phone number in a barely legible scrawl.
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One year ago: Vision Problems
Two years ago: History
Three years ago: Morning - Three (Contrasts)
Four years ago: Sponsored By Nobody
Seven years ago; a few words on the meta-narrative
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