the customs agent asks Ritter, staring at the nondescript man’s passport. “I’m a steward. I work for a catering company in New York City.” “Is that like a host, then?” “No.” The customs agent looks up from the official document and stares at him. There’s nothing aggressive or short in Ritter’s tone, but his passivity, something wholly and comfortably removed, is somehow always more disconcerting for people. “I’m head of stocking and receiving. You could say I keep the cupboards full,” Ritter explains just as passively. Recognition that’s really little more than a scant point of reference widens the custom agent’s eyes. “Ah, I see. And are you here on vacation, then?” “No. Business.” “Right. Well, if you’re planning on returning with any of our local fruit and veg or the like you know you’ll have to declare it.” “I’m not here for either. No worries.” “All right, then.” Ritter’s passport is returned. “Welcome to Wales, Mister Thane.”
