The Patriot: A Short Story

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"You want to run that by me again." The man sitting across from me was well-dressed in a small town Oklahoma way — jeans and a heavy-duty blue work shirt fresh out of the package and buttoned up tight at the collar, factory creases sharp enough to slice bread. His heavy Okie twang almost required an interpreter, and on top of that, he wasn't making a lot of sense. His name was Wayne Magee and he worked at the stockyards east of town. He couldn't have been more than twenty. Morris was a small town but not so small that I knew everyone well. I'd seen him around town, but I didn't know much about his personal life."Some of what you said went by a little fast for me to get hold of."

"I want to hire you," he said.

"I got that part," I said. "It was the rest that sort of slipped past."

He sighed heavily as if burdened by my stupidity. I get that a lot. "I operate a short wave radio from my garage."

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