It was a cloudless spring morning in Iowa on the eve of summer. Tom moved slowly through the old provincial town. It was a barefoot Mark Twain town, where childhood, having played too hard, is not afraid of punishment, and old age approaches carelessly. Later, he sat down on the grass, put his hands under his head and fell asleep. When he woke up, a smiling girl was sitting a few steps away from him, her hands folded in her lap. It brought me here, he thought calmly, a thousand miles from everything and everyone in the world.