Smiling, I reached into my pocket and slipped him four of the mushrooms I’d plucked from the grass under my window. “Miss Suzy had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell,” I said to him. He started to protest, and I finished, “Miss Suzy went to heaven, the steamboat went to New Jersey where it enjoyed a lucrative career in children’s programming.” The smell of copper and cut grass rose around me, twining around the toll taker’s head.
