It led to a sprawling expanse of farmland in central Alabama. The day was cloudless and bright, the horizon nothing but fields under a beautiful blue dome. The man walked to a makeshift table by the side of the road and presented his ID. The farmhand who read the scanner wasn’t much more than a young boy. He was big for his age. “Pickle me pink,” the boy said, looking up in surprise. “You cain’t be Gramgadon. No way in a cold heller.” Gramgadon accepted the fact that the boy saw someone who might teach middle-grade math. Gramgadon was now as natural as they come, looks-wise, appearing to be an older man without the sense to get hair replacement treatment or to get the gobbler hanging below his chin taken care of. “I’m just interested in the good matches. When they start?” The boy looked over his tablet. Gramgadon extended his back and groaned, playing the part of the feeble human. He coughed a bit, and spit in the dirt. The boy glanced at him, as if he might get sick from being so close.
