"Ah there, my little chickadee!"

She cannot believe this black man in those outlandish shoes is speaking to her.

He was, but he isn't.

Because "Don't tell me, let me guess!"

This from the cop.

"W. C. Fields, right?"

"Uh, yeah, bro', thass right."

"Well, W. C., you're gonna hafta go look for Mae West someplace else."

"Yeah, bu-"

"Or you could consider the alternative.

"And I gotta tell ya, I never laugh at the same joke twice."

The black man puts up his hands in front of his chest and backs away a half dozen paces, then scurries from the terminal.

The policeman looks at Daisy, clears his throat to speak, changes his mind, and walks on.

He does not want to see what becomes of her, because it can't be anything good.

"Excuse me, young lady."

Horn-rimmed glasses, a business suit, shorter than her, average build, colorless, balding.

She looks at him, curious.

There is nothing in him to inspire fear or wonder.

"You seem to be lost."

"No, this is the end of the trip all right," she replies.

He smiles.

But there is no warmth in the pale eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Let me rephrase that, then.

"You seem to be at a loss. Like you don't know what to do next."

She stonewalls him, admitting nothing, denying nothing.

"I have a suggestion," he says.

"That is, if you're qualified.

"Have you ever tended a garden?"

Now that, that she can relate to, can respond to.

"I was raised on a farm!"

"Who would have guessed?

"My employer has a garden.

"Or should I say, space for a garden.

"But he has nobody to tend it.

"He offers room, board, money to one who is able to do so.

"Does that sound like something that would be of interest to you?"

"Well, uh, I really haven't given it mu-"