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 hen the taxicab let old man Meecham out in the dusty road by his mailbox, the first thing he noticed was that someone was living in his house. A woman was hanging out wash on a clothesline, a young girl was sunning herself in a rickety lawn chair, and an old dust-colored Plymouth with a flat tire was parked right in Meecham's driveway. All this so disoriented the old man that he almost forgot about paying the cab driver. He thought for a dizzy moment that he had directed the driver to the wrong place, but there was the fading clapboard house and the warm umber roof of the barn, bisected by the slope of ridge, and his name on the mailbox--ABNER MEECHAM--painted in his own halting brushstrokes.
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