Margaret THIS MORNING there was a knock at the door. I could tell who it was by the way they knocked, and I heard them coming across the bridge. They stepped on the only board that makes any noise. They always step on it. I have never been able to figure this out. I have thought a great deal about why they always step on that same board, how they cannot miss it, and now they stood outside my door, knocking. I did not acknowledge their knocking because I just wasn't interested. I did not want to see them. I knew what they would be about and did not care for it. Finally they stopped knocking and went back across the bridge and they, of course, stepped on the same board: a long board with the nails not lined up right, built years ago and no way to fix it, and then they were gone, and the board was silent. I can walk across the bridge hundreds of times without stepping on that board, but Margaret always steps on it. in: Richard Brautigan: Watermelon Sugar