In the low-angled sunlight of a hot afternoon, the front door of the cramped eatery creaked open. The guy who walked in, he looked like a cat hairball that had been pushed around until it was roughly the shape of a man. From the reaction of the woman at the front register, he smelled about the same. After a moment, at a table nearby the Tin Man felt someone's eyes on him. It was just a little vibration in his tin-can chest that made him sit up straighter -- and stop nudging the oil can around on the cafe's well-worn table nervously. It had been a warm summer by anyone's account, but here, after things had traditionally let up for finer climates, out of all rationality came a spike in the temperature. But defying all rationality was not particularly surprising, as this was Oz, and Oz was rarely about making allowances for reason. The heat had sent the poor locals into the shade, and the rich locals out of the city and into their vacation cottages. The city was half desert