Then it broke free of the trees and came into full view: a black truck, maybe the size of a delivery van. It drove the quarter mile to my porch and sl...wed to a stop, squeaky breaks resisting friction’s pull. A dark man in a dark suit, with a burly build and bald head, stepped down from the driver’s seat. “Beautiful evening, Sir,” he called to me in a Jamaican accent. “Your latest shipment is even more beautiful, if I can say.” “You can, Mr. Morgan,” I said, reaching for a handshake, “Wonderful. "Up here!"Then I saw her. It was Mrs. Anderson!"Do you want a cup of coffee?" she called down to me."Thanks!" I called back."Come in then."I leaned the bike against the fence and walked up to the kitchen door. Just as I was about to knock, it opened and Mrs. Anderson stood in front of me in a bathrobe and a thick, woolen scarf."I'm home sick," she told me, unnecessarily. Then added, "Sore throat."I stood just inside the door while she brewed the coffee and put some cookies on a plate."So, let's. More

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