The Cottonwoods

They did have plans, the Company, but we had no worries. They had no right. We were safe.

I go down to the water, and skirt it, circle the shore. There is an elevation one-third around with thick brush and elegant cottonwoods. Someone walks there.

 A guy who doesn't look at me, slouching, not moving. I ask if he is with the Company, but he doesn't seem to understand the question, nor I his answer. I go on around the lake.

Half way there is a general store. I think to ask who is the gent up in the cottonwoods, but I don't know the proprietor well enough to ask for anything more involved than milk.

 When I pass the cottonwoods again, the one I saw before is seated at a card table. There are items on it, nondescript, strange. There is no theme, like lemonade or muffins. Also, there are no prices marked. Just toy cap pistols of an ancient vintage, already-colored coloring books, a dollhouse with two walls missing. He doesn't look up as I pass by.

 When I reach the lower section of the shore, I glance back. There are now three slouching figures, seated at individual card tables with various items scattered upon them. They were not looking at one another, nor seemingly anything else.

 "There are three strangers up in the cottonwoods," I say to my Lady when I enter the cabin. She gazes out across the lake. "Five," she says.

We stand looking. "We can be back in the city before dark," she says.