I had a conversation this morning

with some city slicker-

a hot shot banker kid.

He reminded me of you-know-who.

You know who.

He and I-

I, Mr. Stevens-

we were talking about that escaped convict from Maine,

the banker who shot his wife.

I didn't know who he was talking about.

"Enlighten me."

He said he must be somewhere around here.

Here, New Hampshire.

"They'll get him," he said,

with a self-assured grin.

"Will they now?"

He thought I was patronizing.

"Sure they will, these people never get far."

"These people?"

"Cons. They're not educated people like you or I.

They never knew any better, that's why they do it."

"This man…

ah, Andrew Dufresne…

Was that it?"

Apparently, it was.

"He used to be a banker, right? He must be clever."

"I guess," the hotshot said.

After a while, he left.

I paid for his coffee.

He carried himself the way Red once thought I had.

I never knew everything.

All through my years,

I acknowledged that I don't,

and I think it's as close as anyone's ever come.

New Hampshire is beautiful.

Their prison is in the mountains, though-

I guess all those times I said to myself things could have been worse,

they really could have.

There's not a lot of city here,

more country,

less newspapers

but more time to read.

I'm not worried,

so don't you worry about me either.

The train only works so long, though,

before someone looks up from their paper

and starts to think that fellow across from them

looks like Andrew Dufresne.

I think Stevens needs a car.