I recognized the trench coat he was wearing from the first day we had met him in the library. His pockets were probably still stuffed with crinkled yellowed notes. I stopped in my tracks and then stepped behind a florist’s sidewalk display to watch where he would head. Creelman did not look left or right. Instead, he made a beeline to a nearby trash can and pitched something into it. Then he marched down Tulip Street toward the library and cemetery. I followed. When I walked by the trash can, I peered inside. An opened package of cigarettes lay on top of the garbage, its health warning printed in ugly black letters. So, Creelman was still trying to quit. I wondered if that was why he was grumpy all the time. We both kept walking along Tulip Street, me trailing about a block and a half behind him and his cane. I don’t know why I was so interested in his whereabouts.
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