Sir," said the guard from behind me. "I'd appreciate it if you left your club here."

I paused and looked over my shoulder, He had a gun. His hand wasn't exactly resting on it, but he'd tucked his thumb into his belt about half an inch away.

"It isn't a club," I said calmly. "It's a walking stick."

"Six feet long."

"It's traditional Ozark folk art."

"With dents and nicks all over it."

I thought about it for a second. "I'm insecure?"

"Get a blanket.

Author: Jim Butcher