The Wanderer: At Home

“Who is that?” wondered Mike, a personal support worker for Peter, his ninety-year old patient living on his own in the country. A middle-aged man, wearing dark clothing and cowboy boots, was coming towards them.  He was slouched over watching the gravel road, as he walked. A wide-brimmed hat hid his face.

“Peter, do you know him?”

“The wanderer,” replied Peter. “He’s been coming here for a week, or so.”

Suddenly, the man stopped in front of Peter’s home, pulled out a cell phone and took a picture. He turned and left, just as quickly.

“I don’t like this,” thought Mike, concerned about his patient’s safety. “Is this the first time he has taken your picture?”

“Is that what he did?” asked Peter, with a toothless grin. “Why would he take a picture of an old codger like me? I should be flattered!”

“I am not so sure. If he comes back, I would be inclined to call the police.” 

“Mike, what‘s he going to do, kill me? Jeepers, I am ninety years old. When you get to be my age you no longer fret about dying, or waste time calling the police about strangers. They never believe old guys like me anyhow, and if I told them that story they’d likely say my imagination was running wild.” 

“I'll call them, as I saw what he did.”

“I have a rifle in my bedroom just in case. I may be pretty old, but still know how to shoot a rabbit when I have to.”

Obviously, what he said was true, as there were various items made out of rabbit skin scattered around the room.     

“Peter, would you consider placement in an old timer’s home? It may not be safe to stay here on your own. I can pick up the paperwork.”

“They probably would not let me make rabbit stew there. No, I’ll stay at home until my time is up.”