The clock on the wall said four thirty. It was probably too late to stop in at the high school and look at the yearbooks. Next to the clock was a photograph of a young woman leaning over the hood of a car.

“That was me. I was going to pack my bags. Jump on the interstate. Drive off into a Saturday-matinee future. But then Buddy showed up and the girls came along and that was that.”

I figured I’d eat before I left town. With any luck, I’d catch a ride before it got too dark and make Albuquerque by morning.

Bobbie tapped her empty bottle on the desk. “So you’re Cherokee and Greek,” she said. “How’s that working out for you?”

OZ PILES HIS FOOD around the globe. “All over the world,” he says, cutting into his omelette, “people are starving.”

The part of the globe that is facing me shows Europe and Africa. Greece is in the centre. I can’t see Evia, but I know it’s there. I’m sure that Syria is in the same neighbourhood, but I can’t find it.

“The Kingdom Trio,” says Oz. “Do you know these singers? They sing about riots in Africa and starving in Spain.”

“Kingston Trio.”

“Yes,” says Oz. “The world festering with angry souls.”

“Unhappy souls.”

“Did you find Syria?” Oz spins the globe back a little. “Here,” he says. “Below Turkey.”

Seeing Syria on the globe doesn’t help. “So, they come through Turkey?”

“Yes,” says Oz. “Sometimes they stay. But most take boats to Greece.”

“Boats?”

“Bodrum to Kos. Very dangerous. Not enough boats, always the problem of sinking.”

“Greece isn’t very close to Hungary.”

“Then they must walk or perhaps a bus, if they can afford it. Germany is the number-one place. Also, Sweden.”

Between Greece and Hungary are a number of small countries I know nothing about. Macedonia, Bulgaria, Albania, Kosovo, Montenegro, Serbia, Croatia, Romania.

“Who knows how they get to Budapest.” Oz shrugs. “Many don’t. And now Hungary has shut the doors.”

“The trains still aren’t running?”

I have no eye for distances, but Syria to Greece must be over a thousand kilometres. From Athens to Budapest looks to be even farther. Walking to Germany seems improbable. Sweden impossible.

“We have seen the refugees,” says Oz, raising his glass of orange juice in a toast, “and they are not us.”

I HAD DINNER in Clinton at a small café that was attached to a service station. The waitress was an older woman with hair that reminded me of a mouthful of hay and a limp that threw her from side to side. The badge on her uniform said “Gladys.”

I ordered the burger and a milkshake. “You know any Blackbirds here in town?”

“Indian?”

“Cherokee.”

“Little far west for that. You tend to find them folks around Tahlequah and Muskogee. You headed east?”

“West.”

“Come through Oklahoma City?”

“I did.”