“I couldn’t tell you where that is,” said the old stranger. “I only know how to get there.” Something about this old man made me want to know what he’d been through. If I could grab ahold and shake his face out like a rug, I think I’d see little bits of history and fiction, like dust, drift away on the wind. There was more keeping this man standing than his old legs and I wanted to know it. I told him I was grateful for his help and he said he was sorry he couldn’t give more, then went on his way.