But may I remind you, this is not fiction. This is rather the wellspring of fiction. Its (mysterious) origins. You, unlike me, are suffused with curiosity. Your naïveté allows you to wonder what becomes of “characters” after their stories have ended—as if “characters” continue to exist outside a story.

In the case of Keisha Olen, as in the cases of the morose postal clerk and the stylish librarian, what became of them after I moved to a larger city was of no interest to me. At once, or nearly, I ceased thinking about them.

Until your (naïve) question—Where do I get my ideas?—I had all but forgotten them. As cattle graze a field, then move on, a writer grazes a territory, then moves on. Nostalgia for where you have grazed is not seemly. Delicious mouthfuls of fresh grass are interchangeable, it does not matter where.

In fact, you are probably coming to resemble me in this way. In other ways too, you will one day realize.

In fact I have returned to Herrontown, several years later. For I am required to sell the property on the river, which in my absence has deteriorated like a gangrenous limb.

Finding myself at McGuire’s. Corner of Humboldt and Depot Streets, nothing much changed.

Steeling myself to enter the dingy grocery. The interior seems smaller now. Only two checkout counters are open.

But there is Keisha still at her post!—a stab of emotion leaves me weak, stunned.

But no. The cashier is not Keisha Olen. A slender young woman in smock and jeans, with a girl’s face, close-cropped sand-colored hair. Many years younger than Keisha would be.

A roaring in my ears. Though I can see clearly that this young woman is not Keisha. The store owner, McGuire, grayer and stouter than I recall, seems to recognize me. “Hel-lo! Welcome back.” Couldn’t have been certain who I am, or once was. Five or six years have passed.

Slowly, like a man in a daze, I make my way along the narrow aisles. Like my brownstone, the grocery store has deteriorated. The very floorboards beneath my feet are wearing out. There is a scarcity of frozen foods. The fresh produce is not very fresh. Driving into town, I’d noticed a new Safeway—McGuire’s days are numbered.

For a moment I hesitate, badly wanting to leave. I’d intended to buy a few groceries but regret entering the store. The roaring in my ears is mounting. My usual “cocky” assurance has vanished. After a few minutes shopping I return to the front of the store, where McGuire seems to be waiting for me.

No idea how urgently the words would issue from my mouth—“Does the cashier named Keisha still work here? I used to know her—a little—she lived—lives—on Mill Run Street …”

McGuire ceases smiling. His face registers surprise, pain.