There is a U-shaped, single level red building out near where the old radio station KFYN used to be in our home town. This may be the model, but, again, the surroundings are indistinct, plus, I've never been inside those offices.

I am as a guest who wonders about his welcome, an expatriate returned. There is business discussed around desks and tables. Brother Reloj is there, and he ignores me. (In life, he was one who considered trying to assist one in social engagements generally unavailing; he was in that sense a Social Darwinist. He paid no attention to me in groups where he was well known and I wasn't.)

So I watch as strangers point out charts on tables they seat themselves around, and then they move on to other tables; it's a peripatetic exercise. I go away and come back again and no one seems to notice. I must find somewhere to sleep. I must go home.

It is difficult, I know, because home is where the parents lived, but they're all gone now. I know there is a house, however, and it's in another community I am unaware of. Reloj tells me it's in Hartford, or Messina, and he gives very little detail and I have no idea where the home of our parents is, but I don't dare ask for more answer than he's ready to give. I have come from miles away, and I must find sleep I know not where.

I approach a seat around a table again, and the lady to my left reaches up and raps me on the head with her knuckles like kids do. This is a signal; I'm happy to be recognized, though she offers no more than that.

Now, Chico is around the table. He's the pal of Reloj's and mine since childhood. He doesn't seem to notice me. I make no move to attract his attention. He is just sitting, vacantly gazing at the diagram before them all. I stand up, move around directly opposite his position, across the table and behind those sitting there facing him. He doesn't look at me.

Completely ignored on my long trip home, that's what this one is about.

I wonder if I'm deceased.