Wally was looking ahead, looking at a Model T that had just crossed a small bridge from downtown and was now motoring up the steep rise of Lakes Road. “What year are we in?”

Phinney tugged at one handful of reins and turned his wagon onto Lakes Road, in the direction of the bridge and Monroe. “Boy, you had better get that head checked out. You must’ve had a fall or somethin’.”

“Yeah, I mean yes, you’re right. At least I don’t feel well. That much I know. Is there a doctor in town?”

“There is. I’ll drop you off in front of his house.”

“Thank you.” Wally leaned forward, cupping his head in his hands and inhaling the aroma of horseshit wafting up from the animal on his side of the wagon.

“Don’t mention it.”

The wagon and its passengers rode in silence for the sixty seconds of a minute. Wally still cradled his head in his hands, and then the visitor raised his head with an inhalation of courage and looked up the venue that had turned into Monroe’s Lake Street and down at the cobblestones they were ascending on their way to the doctor’s place. Men in the ubiquitous derby caps of the working class, women in hats with pinned veils and shoes with spats rising up underneath long skirts, and the occasional child in knickers or a dress were walking up and down the town thoroughfare, either coming or going from business in the surrounding vicinity or in one of the several shops that lined the street.

Wally stared at the inhabitants of the town, many of whom stared back at Peabody’s passenger. Stare they didn’t too long, though, as the young man in wool sweater, denim blue jeans, and leather hiking boots didn’t seem too out of place.