“Stop.” The deuce continued to bounce and rock along the road.

“I said stop. Stop!” The truck came to a lurching halt in the middle of the town of Berlin.

“But, sir, my orders are to-”

“I know,” Pierce said, exasperated. “But they’re not my orders.” He walked into a simple country store. All eyes turned to meet his as the door slammed against its worn spring. Pierce approached the counter. “Uh, Coke, please.”

“Don’t have one. How’s about a “Howdy”, best soda pop this side of the mountains.”

“Sure.” The waitress smiled and pirouetted as all eyes turned from Pierce to her apron. By the time he turned his head, he had his affectation.

“Hiya doin?” Pierced regarded the closest man with a smile.

“Let me guess, Boston.”

“How’d you know.”

“Son, I’d know that accent from a gaggle-a-geese in a hurricane.”

“Well, then, let me correct you. It’s pronounced “Bosstin.” The group erupted in laughter and Pierce slid in among the men.

“What brings you out here to Stark, Mister? Huntin’? Skiing? Gotta be for the skiing, ’cause there’s nothing else up here.”

“Ah, no. No, I’m here on official government business is all.”

“You wouldn’t be goin’ up there to Camp Stark now are you?”

“Well, as a mattahahfact I am.” Pierce smiled, giving the boys his best Back Bay accent. The room fell silent. The waitress placed the soda bottle down on the counter. The only sound. Pierce looked among the men and they stared back in silence. The man closest to Pierce spoke.