It was good tobacco. A perfect blend for passing a pleasant spring day under the boughs of an orchard in full bloom. The Medicine Seller was always particular about such things, especially in his dreams.

"You are not a spirit," he repeated. Atticus had affirmed as much not a moment earlier. Still, he couldn't blame the man for being suspicious.

"Perhaps there are other things here aside from spirits and dreamers," he said. "But I have not met them. Nor read about them."