EighteenAt Riverneck, with the sun dropping down below the horizon and the wind building, they checked into a moth-eaten, crumbling hotel, the little old man behind the reception desk scrawling their names in a huge ledger, spidery script crawling across the page. “Don't get many visitors nowadays,” he said, voice tremulous, “not since the mine gave out. No one bothers to come here no more. You folks aim to stay long?”
Clifton shrugged, twisting his neck to look across to the woman and child standing there, silent, resentful. “One night. Tomorrow we'll be moving on.”
“We're aiming to go to Patsy and Wilbur Wright's homestead.”
“Ah,” the old man dropped his eyes to the ledger, studying the names Clifton had scrawled again. “Patsy and Wilbur. Good, good. Well, if you'll be wanting anythin
