'Fuck this!' he growled to himself. He'd waited long enough. He was going to give up on Guthrie, at least for tonight; head back to the warmth of the rented house on Balthazar's Main (and only) Street; brew himself some coffee, cook himself an early breakfast, then catch a few hours' sleep. Resisting the temptation to knock on the door one final time, he left the doorstep, digging for the keys as he strode back over the squeaking snow to the jeep.

At the very back of his mind, he'd wondered if Guthrie was the kind of perverse old bastard who'd wait for his visitor to give up before opening the door. He was. Will had no sooner vacated the comfort of the lamplight when he heard the door grinding across the frosted steps behind him. He slowed his departure but didn't turn, suspecting that if he did so Guthrie would simply slam the door again. There was a long silence. Time enough for Will to wonder what the bears might be making of this peculiar ritual. Then, in a worn voice, Guthrie said: 'I know who you are and I know what you want.'

'Do you?' Will said, chancing a backward glance.

'I don't let anybody take pictures of me or my place,' Guthrie said, as though there was an unceasing parade of photographers at his door.

Will turned now, slowly. Guthrie was standing back from the step, and the porchlight threw very little illumination upon him. All Will could make out was a very tall man silhouetted against the murky interior of the shack. 'I don't blame you,' Will said, 'not wanting to be photographed. You've got a perfect right to your privacy.'

'Well then what the fuck do you want?'

'Like I said: I just want to talk.'

Guthrie had apparently seen enough of his visitor to satisfy his curiosity, because he now stepped back a pace and started to push the door closed. Will knew better than to rush the step. He stayed put and played the only