From under the overhang of a thatched roof, he watched an old man on a small stool sit to one side of the dead-end junction of two dirt roads.  The old man had not shifted on the stool or readjusted himself; he hadn’t moved.  Yet, suddenly, he did turn and look right at him.  It seemed clear the old man hadn’t the eyesight to see him from that distance or the ear to hear him walk up to the hut and yet his presence had been sensed.  He felt as if invited.  He walked down the one dirt road to where it met the other.  The old man’s gaze didn’t follow him.  He felt shy, beckoned and then ignored.  He called out to the old man, a greeting.  The old man’s ear didn’t turn to him.  He thought to step up to the old man, but hesitated at the thought of village eyes on him.  The eyes would be expecting him to continue on down the other dirt road, to not poke around.  He replayed in his mind for days thereafter that he had at one point looked back and been surprised to see the old man still in the position he had turned to.  Had the old man simply shifted himself on the stool?  Had he made of the old man a story — of an invitation — which essentially got him thrown right out of town?  Was he developing a habit of voicing answers as questions?