The wind is cool against my forehead, the grass rustling underfoot. It must be near closing time because the light is fading. Little American flags whisper to me.

I wander down an emerald aisle, apologizing silently to everyone I pass over. I don’t know where he is and I’m running out of time.

“Eh, brah?”

“Yes?” I turn to find a groundskeeper, rake in hand. He’s short with dark, weathered skin and thin, greasy hair. The wind is picking up.

“We closing in fifteen minutes,” he says, pulling off his left glove. “Budget cuts, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Who you looking for?”

I smile humbly. “I’m looking for a Vince Nash.”

“Nash? Nash? He just got here, I think. Two rows over,” he says, pointing with a craggy brown hand. “You better hurry up or you’ll be locked in. Then you’ll be all jam up, ah?” The groundskeeper laughs and trudges away, pulling his rake behind him.

It figures. Even now, Vince can still find ways to get me into trouble.