I stepped up to the trailer door, about to chap it, but I didnt. The uniformed male security would have been waiting there, concealed behind the door. He had seen me and would have watched my approach. But ye Heavens the weather! The rain maintained volume, pattering off the tin walls and ceiling. I needed shelter man no two-ways about it. I chapped thrice. He answered immediately but did not stand aside that I might enter the trailer. His hand hovered above the butt of his gun. He carried himself erect, shoulders stiffly back. This was to warn me that he could handle himself in an emergency. I had a sandwich in my pocket. Maybe I could feed him the fucking thing. I should say he was about sixty or something like that, seventy. My father was fifty-three the last I saw him, five fucking years ago though why I refer to him I dont know except, well, I was not about to have a physical scrap, not with a gun-totin stranger, elderly or not, especially one who reminded me of my so-to-speak daddy.
He gazed sideways and down over my head, seeking accomplices after the fact. I stayed silent. Now he waited. Eventually I gestured at the unprepossessing building, and realized the place was deserted. And that the rain had stopped, it had. Pools of water lay on the ground. It was no figment. His attitude had tempered. Something about his shoulders, a weariness.
Who sent you? he said.
I was wondering that myself but made no reply. I think I must have smiled slightly.