It was a good 300 yards of rutted road to the address on the card. He carried the bag easily, strap slung over the shoulder as if he was a hockey goalie in his street clothes heading briskly to the rink to get dressed out before the puck dropped. A leaning mailbox advertised the house number via black spray paint, 10 yards before a dead end and a swathe of thick foliage almost completely concealing a wide field of tea plants. Must be the plantation Honey mentioned. He turned right and strode up the trash-strewn driveway, a big-wheel missing its big wheel, rusty empty cans of cheap beer riddled with bird shot, a cracked laundry hamper that may have one time worked as middleman to a clothesline that was now defeated snaked across weeds, still tied to a fallen post. Not a shock this led to a
