“Pardon me,” the man said, rolling down his window, “would you happen to know—am I going the right direction to Willamina’s house?”

My grandfather paused his garden work. He stuck the pitchfork into the earth and rested his hands atop it.

“No,” he said. “You’ve come in the opposite direction. Did you see that yellow house? The one with the flamingos out front?”

“No, I must have missed that,” said the man.

“Well, you have to go back there. Then take the gravel road.”

“Gravel road?”

“It’ll take you to a line of poplar trees. Drive along that for about a quarter mile.”

The man then bid us farewell, and my grandfather looked down at me—even I knew there were no flamingos, no graveled road or poplar trees.

Bio: Laton Carter