Theodore checked his phone to see if there were any text messages for him. There was one. It was from the cellular phone company. It said, “THEODORE, thanks for calling AT&T today. We'll text you shortly for some feedback about your wireless call experience. Survey texts are free.” “AT&T is such a fine company,” Theodore thought, “but I haven’t spoken to a soul in days. There’s got to be a mistake.” He waited for the coming text message, whistled the Alphabet Song, and checked his email inbox. The doorbell rang. A man selling notions asked if he could use his telephone because his car was stuck in some mud in Theodore’s yard. Theodore looked over the man’s shoulder and saw his bed of Baby’s Breath in total disarray. “Why, sure,” Theodore said. “Please come in. I implore you, come in from the rain, I was just about to heat up a stout. I hope you like Guinness.” The man used Theodore’s landline telephone, asked for a lady named Donna, and then began speaking in a coded language, repeating the military alphabet out of order, and hissing. Theodore burned his mouth on the beer and checked his phone. No texts. The man hung up and slumped over the receiver. “How exactly does one sell notions,” Theodore said, zooming in on a pixelated photo of the Loch Ness Monster. “Because I haven’t the faintest clue.”