Bob Pesh owns the small building, shuttered and dusty, on Fourth Street across from the Hitchin Post. The best thing about the building is its roof doesn’t leak. Its utilities are all turned off. It used to be a butcher shop. Inside, it smells like blood or rust. Bob doesn’t sell it since no one wants it. It has become a metaphor for his own life, having waited too long for something else to happen.
Small-town lives