It was the fourth of February, 1970.

"Take a seat, Cambpell."

Police Chief Clyde Pemberton carried himself with the straight-backed pride of a new appointee—a little stiff, but Nora could hardly fault him, being even newer herself. She sat at the desk, hands in her lap, still not quite used to the bulk of the police vest and holster. It seemed to hang awkwardly from her frame, but she supposed certain comforts only come with time.

"When'd you start again, Sunday?"

"Monday, sir," Nora said.

"Day three," Pemberton said appraisingly. "How are you finding everything?"

"Nice enough, though the rest of the boys at the station seem to have no idea how to act around me… half won't do a single thing I ask, while the other half seem bent on treating me like their mother, or explaining every little thing—as though pulling my shirt over my head is a mystery I'd struggle to solve without them."

"Yeah…" Pemberton said, shaking his head, "some adjustments take time. Be patient with them?"

Nora nodded.

"Now, Campbell, you've had your couple days of grace period to settle in, but, as the new hire, there'll be a certain baseline of… less desirable calls you'll be first pick for."

"New hire gets the shit," Campbell said, nodding. The Chief's eyes boggled at the profanity.

"Sorry," he said, "not used to such language from a, uh—" he cut himself off before he could do any more damage. "Right, like I said, adjustments may take time."

Nora waited patiently. "So… the gruntwork?"

The Chief shook his head to clear it. "Right. As you know, crime rates aren't high in sleepy old Boone, so most calls are pretty mundane. People here have got different thresholds for when to call the police than do city folk, not that we ever minded being the gentle hand of the community."

"So far the only crime I've seen was petty theft from a gas station shop."

"I saw your report," Pemberton said. "Grand theft candy bar is often about as bad as it gets. One thing you'll learn is that we got regulars—people who call us often for not-so-urgent affairs. We tend to them as often as our schedules allow, but, with matters as peaceful as they are, that turns out to be pretty often."

"And today I meet my first regular?"

"Someone who's been calling for the past few months… his are always interesting calls to take, since he's got a different voice every time he calls in."

"What does that mean?"

"He writes notes and gets people to call us, on account of being dumb—can't talk a lick, as I understand it. Old as an oak. We call him Mr. Creaks. A bit freaky looking, but harmless."

"And what is the nature of his emergency?" Nora asked with mocking seriousness.

* * *

Nora had head it said that pets take on the characteristics of their owners—and, in her experience, that seemed to hold generally true.

Mr. Creaks had no pets, but he had a wheelchair, and it was as rickety and creaky as he was—or, maybe more accurately, he was as rickety and creaky as it was. He was wrapped in a heavy blanket to ward off the winter's chill, though the supermarket interior was relatively balmy. Mr. Creaks shivered regardless.

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As Nora pushed his chair forwards, she dragged a shopping cart behind with her free hand. Patrons got one look at the old man and milled out of the way, some openly gawking. "Didn't your mother teach you it's impolite to stare?" Nora asked one particularly wide-eyed customer. He sheepishly scurried away.

Periodically, Mr. Creaks would raise a hand—something Nora had learned meant 'stop here'—and then he would raise a wisp of an arm to point at something on the shelf. Nora would remove it and add it to the cart. She walked to the latest of such indicated items, some breakfast cereal in a box more colorful than most Woodstock posters.

"My son loves this one," Nora said, adding it to the cart. "I try not to buy it too often for him, since it's got more sugar than literal candy."

She saw Mr. Creaks shift as he grabbed his pad and pen, scratching out one of his infamous notes. "No mother to tell me no," he wrote, and a mischevious smile broke out across his scarred face. Nora returned it with her warmest.

"Perks of being old," Nora replied. She pushed the chair and cart forward again, advancing down the breakfast aisle. Apparently the old man had a private caretaker he often relied upon, but whether due to budgeting or schedule conflicts, it seemed he had gaps in his help. What's worse, he seemed to have no real family to lean on: his adoptive family had cousins in the Boone area—Nora couldn't remember their names—but it seemed none had a direct relationship with the old man. If not for city help, Nora had no idea what he'd do. She felt a stirring of pity for him. She wanted to speak up—to ask him something about himself, engage him in any way that might make him feel less lonely—but before she could, she saw him begin the scrawling of yet another note,

"Your son, tell me about him," the note said.

"The gosh-darn center of my world," Nora began. "Just turned five, so he's still got a lot of mischief in him, but that's starting to mellow now. Inquisitive, generous, and not a mean bone in his body. Loves to help people… you shoulda seen his face light up when I told him I was gonna become a police officer. For the rest of that night, I felt like the coolest person in the world. It was all he'd talk about all Christmas," Nora remembered.

Mr. Creaks reached up to dab at his eye. She'd heard of eye injuries occasionally tearing up, and he had his handkerchief packed away in moments… but then the handkerchief was right back out, dabbing a second time, a third. He was crying, Nora realized. She halted her push and moved to kneel in front of him, but he stuck up a stubborn hand and wheeled it forward, a gesture she'd learned meant keep going.

"Are you sure?" Nora asked, and Mr. Creaks roughly nodded his head, a gesture that seemed to bring physical pain. He then stuck up the same note: "Your son, tell me about him," accompanied by the rolling hand gesture. And so, Nora continued.

"Loves to read—chews through a new kids' book every other day, to the point where all the librarians know his name. He walks around like he owns the place, and he's got the layout memorized, too. Knows right where they keep the picture books, and then he'll spend a while gawking at the scifi novel covers. He wants to finally read one this year. Do you read, sir?"

Mr. Creaks pointed, and Nora passed a loaf of bread into the cart. Then he began writing. "Little else I can do," the note said.

"Any recommendations for what book to buy him?"

Mr. Creaks appeared thoughtful for a moment, and then he wrote his response. He folded the note and wrote "Some recommendations" on the outside, handing it to Nora. She pocketed the paper.

"Thanks, I'm sure he'll love them."

Mr. Creaks was already scribbling his next note. "He seems fortunate to have such an attentive and kind mother."

Nora patted him on the shoulder. "That's sweet of your to say. Were you close with your mother?"

Mr. Creaks stared out, thoughtful. "She was a lot like you," he wrote. "Lost her when I was young. Cherish your time."

Nora nodded, an idea forming. She walked to the front of the chair and knelt down, looking him in the eye. "Say, why don't you come over for dinner this week? You could meet Parker, and my—"

but Mr. Creaks was already shaking his head. "Too kind," he wrote. "Maybe some time."

He smiled as far as his scarred face would allow, and then he wrote his next note. "But it was lovely to meet you, Officer Campbell."

He held her gaze, and Nora swore there was a familiar look to those eyes, a trace of someone she knew. It was suddenly driving her crazy, the way that those ancient eyes seemed to peer at her with uncanny familiarity. "…Are you sure we've never met before?"

"No," Mr. Creaks said aloud, voice like torn paper. Nora hadn't even known he could speak.

The two finished their shopping trip, and then Nora helped him into a city transportation van that idled in the parking lot—its destination unknown to her. It wasn't until after she saw it leave, watching the lone, hunched silhouette within disappear down the road, that she realized something strange: he'd called her Officer Campbell, but she'd never told the man her last name. She'd only introduced herself as Nora.

Oh, wait, duh—name's on my badge. Still not used to that, she thought, chiding herself for her own stupidity, looking for mysteries when there was just a strange old man. But something about him was still undeniably familiar—she'd have to ask some more about him during his next call. Despite the fact that it was "rookie gruntwork," she was looking forward to nothing more.