John has drawn his old route in pencil. The hospital visitor chair holds the map while he searches for an eraser. A warehouse has gone; a café has changed its name. He leaves both old and new names on the page. A map should admit when things move, he decides. At the harbour stop he adds a tiny fern. Nobody else would know why it belonged there. That is all right. The practical directions are clear, and the unnecessary details are what make it his map.