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Keller, fresh off the plane from Newark, followed the signs marked Baggage Claim. He hadn’t checked a bag, he never did, but the airport signage more or less assumed that everybody checked their luggage, because you got to the exit by heading for the baggage claim. You couldn’t count on a series of signs that said This is the way to get out of this goddam place.

There was a down escalator after you cleared security, and ten or a dozen men stood around at the foot of it, some in uniform, most holding hand-lettered signs. Keller found himself drawn to one man, a droopy guy in khakis and a leather jacket. He was the guy, Keller decided, and his eyes went to the sign the man was holding.

But you couldn’t read the damn thing. Keller walked closer, squinting at it. Did it say Archibald? Keller couldn’t tell.

He turned, and there was the name he was looking for, on a card held by another man, this one taller and heavier and wearing a suit and tie. Keller veered away from the man with the illegible sign-what was the point of a sign that nobody could read?-and walked up to the man with the Archibald sign. “I’m Mr. Archibald,” he said.

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