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looked very happy to take a minute, because Reacher was already her best friend forever, because of the tip, and because she’d just been asked a question that was neither offensive nor boring.
    She said, “I like to think a grateful son in a faraway city built his mama a little country home to retire to, in exchange for all the good things she had done for him, and then some stores came to sell her what she needed, and some more houses, and pretty soon it was a town.”
    Reacher said, “Is that the official version?”
    The waitress said, “Honey, I don’t know. I’m from Mississippi. I can’t imagine how I washed up here. You should ask the counterman. I think he was born in the state at least.”

    And then she bustled away, like waitresses do.
    Chang asked, “Was that the showbusiness answer?”
    Reacher nodded and said, “But from the creative side, not the marketing side. She needs to get with the program. Or go write for the movies. I saw one just like that. On the television set in a motel room. In the daytime.”
    “Should we ask the counterman?”
    Reacher glanced over. The guy was busy. He said, “First I’m going to find some real people. I saw some candidates while I was out walking. Then I’m going to find a place to take a nap. Or maybe I’ll get my hair cut. Maybe I’ll see you at the railroad stop at seven o’clock. Your guy Keever will be getting out, and I’ll be climbing aboard.”
    “Even if you don’t know the story of the name yet?”
    “It’s not that important. Not really worth sticking around for. I’ll believe my own version. Or yours. Depending on my mood.”
    Chang said nothing in reply to that, so Reacher drained his mug, and slid out from behind his table, and threaded his way back through the room. He stepped outside. The sun was still warm. Next on the list. Real people . Starting with the spare-parts guy, for the irrigation systems.

Chapter 6
    The guy was still hemmed in behind his register. He had about two feet of room, which wasn’t enough. He was close to Reacher’s own height and weight, but slack and swollen, in a shirt as big as a circus tent, above a belt buckled improbably low, under a belly the size of a kettle drum. His face was pale, and his hair was colorless.
    There was a phone on the wall, behind his right shoulder. Not an ancient item with a rotary dial and a curly wire, but a regular modern cordless telephone, with a base station screwed to the stud, and a handset upright in a cradle. Easy enough for the guy to flail blindly behind him, and then the numbers were right there, in the palm of his hand, for speedy dialing. Or speed dialing. The base station had a plastic window with ten spaces. Five were labeled, and five were not. The labels seemed to be the brands the guy sold parts for. Helplines for technical advice, possibly, or sales and service numbers.
    The guy said, “Can I get you anything?”
    Reacher said, “Have we met?”
    “I’m pretty sure not. I’m pretty certain I’d remember.”

    “Yet when I walked by the first time you jumped so high you practically bumped your head on the ceiling. Why was that?”
    “I recognized you, from your old pictures.”
    “What old pictures?”
    “From Penn State, in ’86.”
    “I wasn’t smart enough for Penn State.”
    “You were in the football program. You were the linebacker everyone was talking about. You were in all the sports papers. I used to follow that stuff pretty closely back then. Still do, as a matter of fact. You look older now, of course. If you don’t mind me saying that.”
    “Did you make a phone call?”
    “When?”
    “When you saw me walk by.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “I saw your hand move toward the phone.”
    “Maybe it was ringing. It rings all the damn time. Folks wanting this, folks wanting that.”
    Reacher nodded. Would he have heard the phone ring? Possibly not. The door had been closed, and the phone was all electronic, with adjustable volume, and