I follow the trail away from the last neighborhood, along a fenced bean field lying stripped of its fruit, past the hummocky track the dirt-bike riders circle on Saturdays, and down to the river. I am so focused on the story in my head that I don’t hear the wind arguing with the willows, so absorbed by the travails of my fish prince that I don’t notice the man following me.
I’m a professional storyteller, hired to liven up birthday parties and classrooms. I love to see the kids’ upturned faces, mouths open, the narrative unreeling in their minds. Walking helps me memorize a story, and I am mentally jabbering away, linking the sections of the story to one another, putting meat on the bones, when I happen to look behind me and see him: nondescript clothes, short bristly hair, a stern walk.
