At your service and your door: an oily, slick-talking encyclopedia salesman. You let him in out of the rain. From his suitcase he produces a single volume. "Last of its kind," he marvels. "Totally, completely, absolutely unabridged. Heavy as an anvil, holy as the Grail." He leans in close and whispers with stale whiskey breath, "I assure you, my friend, this book is your bible."

You open the book to a random entry. It is a river, swollen and rapid with recent rain. On a bench by the river sits a bum, reading a section of his newspaper blanket, swigging moonshine from a bottle. He tenses at the sight of your uniform, mistaking you for the law. "I ain't drinkin' this," he insists. "Just keepin' the bottle on me to put a message in when the flood comes." Then he reconsiders your uniform. "Wait a second now, you ain't the law. You're a mailman if I ever seen one." He hands you a letter and says, "Mail that for me, will ya?"

You clap the book shut and tell the salesman you'll take it.