This is the memory ballast.

I'm Nate Demail.

The thin man in the ladder was 28, though his thinning hair made him look older.

So did his suit.

So I'd have placed in this ladder in the middle of the forest beside a dry creek bed.

From the top, two stories up, he could look south into Mexico.

If you looked west beyond the golden foothills, he could nearly see San Diego, shining at the

edge of the Pacific.

But he only looked up at the perfect Southern California sky, blue and cloudless and infuriating.

Because Charles Hadfield couldn't work with the cloud of the sky.

It was one of the first things he learned that first time in the library, sometime around

1903.

Most mornings he put on a suit and pack up his sample case, enroll it from house to house

all around Los Angeles.

When walking right past no trespassing signs posted on the lawns of people sick of besueded

salesmen.

Because more than once, Charlie ignored one of those signs and was greeted at the door by

an angry homeowner.

But still managed to sell him a sewing machine anyway.

He was that good.

He was sure he could take over the whole business one day.

But he didn't want to.

...