When in town, he always sat there, alone in the corner table, lower back nailed to the wall in a coiled-to-strike, folded-shoulder funk. He rarely shifted, save to spin his sweaty tumbler of exactly three ice cubes poisoned in Old Crow. Indistinctly bathed in the furthest reach of ochre light, the shadows wept like chilled molasses over the blackened felt brim of his 7X, his eyes glinting as shards of smoked glass. No living soul knew his name. The children, who tripped aside in the street as he reverberated by in a suffocating stir of red clay on the spine of his infamously unapproachable Sturgis, called him “Tristeza del Padre.” Like the summer vow of distantly dark clouds lurching forward with bulging bags of angry rain and the crack of heaven’s whip, he was no stranger to the slam of small talk and shutter. Everybody, hidden behind sidelong glances and other-way turns, understood better than the gist of a nursery rhyme as to why he had come.