I head back out. His English is very broken. And my French is equally broken. With my lovely wife’s help, we put the AC and bike in the back of my truck and he manages to tell me his address-about 10 minutes away. On the ride over, across the language barrier, he shares that his name is Christian, from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I apologize for forgetting all the French I knew growing up in the St. John Valley of Maine.