Miss, did your pen run out of ink? You haven’t written a thing down since I mentioned Charlotte again. Forgive me for saying, but you can’t understand only one man’s story. Those around him have things to say too.

Yes, I know you’re the reporter, Miss.

The man Pat sent over? His name is Mr. Watkin. His full name is Henry Watkin.

I’d never heard of Mr. Watkin until that evening when he was waiting for me on the front porch and introduced himself as a longtime friend of Lafcadio Hearn.

No, Miss, Mr. Watkin isn’t a Negro.

Last time I heard, he’s living at the Old Men’s Home in Walnut Hills. He’s full of stories too, but his aren’t the same as mine.

Gave young Lafcadio his first real job here in Cincinnati, Mr. Watkin would tell me. Met him on a bench at Eden Park of all places. Lafcadio was, of course, reading a book. He was the worst apprentice typesetter I ever had. He had the eyesight of a day-old pup. Got ink over everything except for the type. Had to find him another job just to get him out of my shop. He was sleeping there at the time, and the wife didn’t like the sight of that. Lafcadio was well read, so I thought the library would suit him better and it did. But that librarian was a skinflint. Paid him so little that Lafcadio was still sleeping on the floor of my shop. So I found him another job, a proofreader at a larger printing house. Also bought him a better pair of reading glasses. Loaned him a bit of money too, so that he could pay for room and board at Mrs. Haslam’s. I’m glad I did. Meeting you suited him best. He couldn’t stop talking about the color of your hair. Cinnamon, Lafcadio said it was.

I’d hear these stories later, when Mr. Watkin and I became acquainted.

The evening we met, Mr. Watkin was all briskness and worry. If he could find someone to watch his shop, he planned to take the train to Memphis the very next day and from there catch a steamboat down to New Orleans, he said. Breakbone fever is the thanks that Lafcadio gets for reporting in that part of the country, Mrs. Hearn. Mosquitoes and Rebs are what Louisiana has in spades, I’d warned him. But you know how Lafcadio can be. When his mind is set on something, it’s impossible to dissuade him.

I received a letter from Lafcadio today, Mr. Watkin said. Lafcadio wanted me to give you the address of the hospital where he’s confined. He said that your boy Bill could help you with the address. Here, I hope Bill can read my handwriting. Printers, we don’t have the best penmanship, Mrs. Hearn.