It is the single most Jacqueline detail imaginable, a woman planning her visits to little rural mills and reminding herself to be gracious to the millers who would show her their heritage grains.

The map was not the plan of a route.

It was a wish list.

It was the itinerary of a hobbyist’s dream, all the lovely old mills she hoped to see while circumstance had planted her, for six months, in a part of the country she might never pass through again.

I read a wish list as a crime map.

That is how far gone I was.