nly three. Three more steps. Nearly there. Brace right, push left, lift right, plant, shift weight, repeat. Slowly. Repeat.

The door.

The door would present a problem. It looked like it opened outward. The cane would get in the way. The cane always got in the way. Cane: yes, he'd have to get a proper cane one of these days—bloody stick was too clumsy. Ugly too, people in the city were no doubt looking down on him—bumpkin leaning on a branch.

Locked.

It didn't matter which damned way the damned door opened. It was locked. He turned, letting his gaze tumble back down the sprawling, tiered approach to the bureaucratic palace.

Sixty two steps. Broken by three landings. Sixty two steps, put there, no doubt, to protect the denizens from the growing legions of disenchanted elders. Sixty two steps. How long had they taken him to climb?

Locked. What else was there to do? The was no way in hell he was going down again. Not just yet. He would wait.

A quarter the way through the sun's second parching trip towards the zenith, the door clicked. Unlocked from the inside. It was no easy feat, even with the stick, for a man of his age, weakened by the hunger and thirst of his vigil, to rise and grasp the large, ornate door handle. And he could not have said how he managed to open it.

There were more stairs behind the door. Four of them. The wide, spread out kind—step up, shuffle, shuffle, step up. Then, maybe twenty feet across a smooth, cold, marble floor, a massive desk blocking the way to a huge open foyer. Behind the desk was a woman. She wore a dark green suit which gave the impression of a uniform because it had no stripes or pattern—or maybe because it was so close to the colour of the painted portion of the walls above the solid wood (oak he thought) wainscoting.

"I've been waiting more than a day." His throat was like dry leaves.

"I beg your pardon," clipped, without looking up from her newspaper. Not so much a question or apology as a challenge.

He cleared his throat with as much force and loudness as he could muster, risking the chance that it might crumble to powder and blow away. "I have a message."

"A message? For or from whom?"

"'S from my dead wife's brother, Amos. For Mr. Burrin in the tax assessor's office."

"Mr. Burrin? Do you have an appointment?" "A message. What I've got is a damned message! Nobody never said nothin' 'bout no —" He coughed and rattled—an old man. Years ago his father had coughed like that.

With visible irritation and reluctance, she set aside her newspaper and made herself busy with the telephone. "I'm sorry sir, but it appears that Mr. Burrin doesn't come in on Monday mornings. Flex time."

The stick. If he had the strength he could beat the insolent bitch across the shins. That would bring somebody. They'd at least give him water while they waited for guards or police or dog catchers or whomever to take him away.

"He's not here." Now she was shouting like she thought he was deaf. "Is it a written message you have? You could leave it with me. I promise I'll see that it gets to him." She seemed to think she was trying to be helpful. "I was trying to be helpful," she would tell her husband that evening at home.

"Don't neither of us write." Each rasping word tore a strip off his throat, each searing breath burned a slash all the way down into his lungs.

She actually looked up. "Is something wrong, sir?" She was finally seeing him as the old, feeble man crumbling before her rather than just another anonymous interruption to her morning coffee and newspaper.

"Dry —" little more than a harsh, buzzing whisper.

She said nothing, but she abandoned her post to fetch water in a disposable plastic cup. She hadn't understood him, but water was the only thing that came to mind.

The dry leaves were moistened—still brittle, but not quite so bad. He might get out a few more words. His quivering hand wiped at the few drops that dribbled out the corner of his mouth. He licked the moisture from the back of his hand. Yes, he might manage. "I'll say it. You write it down—give it to Burrin."

"I'm sorry sir?"

"The message, damn it." He shouldn't have bothered with the curse. How many words did he have left? Surely not enough to waste on curses."

"Sorry sir, the message, of course."

"Amos'll be a couple weeks late with his taxes on account of getting the pump fixed. D'you write that down?"

"Yes, of course. And this is for Mr. Burrin? In taxation? Um, what is your brother-in-law's last name? His family name?"

"——unhhhh-unnnnhhhh" Nothing came. He tried to clear his throat again.

"I'll get you some more water —"

It didn't matter. He had carried out his promise to Amos. Amos'ld've come himself except for the chickens. No matter. The message was delivered to the proper building in the city.

Now he could lie down and rest. Maybe he'd just die right there. There were all those steps outside. And such a long, long walk back. And he was so thirsty—and hungry too.

After all, the place was a bit like a church. He'd always fancied dying in a church.

© Gary Eikenberry