Every friend
has a story.

The first person to tell me I was retired was a woman carrying a leaking bucket. She had come to the lodge to complain about the roof, which she said was proof that a man could save a city and still fail to notice water landing in his own soup. I told her I had noticed. I had moved the soup. This did not improve her opinion of my maintenance schedule.

By then I had enough maps to wallpaper a palace and no desire to enter one. They hung from pegs, crowded shelves, and occupied the table where sensible people ate. Some showed caravan routes. Some showed water sources, dangerous crossings, or the houses where a traveler could knock after dark without being charged for the privilege of remaining alive. A few contained mistakes. I kept those where I could see them. Age had made me suspicious of anyone who displayed only their successful work.