Grisham looks like a weather-beaten human who has spent twenty years sleeping beneath awnings, riding freight wagons, and walking away from places that should have killed him. He has windswept dark brown hair, a short scruffy brown beard, and a long tattered duster that hangs past his knees. He appears to hobble badly with a waist-height cane, planting it before every step with theatrical caution, yet the instant nobody is watching closely his limp disappears. His movements are otherwise unnervingly economical, as if his body is always half a second ahead of the world. His coat is patched with mismatched cloth, old sail canvas, funeral ribbon, and pieces of fabric that seem to belong to no known country. The unexpected contradiction is that his hands are immaculate, with clean nails and carefully moisturized knuckles, because he considers them his true professional tools. Meeting him leaves the impression of a tired vagrant, followed by the creeping realization that the room has acquired one extra shadow and lost one small possession.