I once saw two brothers of the long robe involuntarily stop and heartily enjoy the dialogue of that merry little fellow with Jack Ketch, who was about to hang Punch for the murder of his wife and his innocent babe.

There is a whisper network in Bisbee, of codes and messages telling weary crossers where they can stay, safely hidden from the border patrol.

Once I had to grit my teeth against skeeving out when Mai's carpet of blue and silver ferret-looking creatures brushed my shins.

Watch the elderly, even the escapists, as they nurse nostalgia: the wonder as they open memory boxes or old letters or family albums […]