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We stopped to eat our packed lunches in the shade of a gazebo with a notably spectacular view out across the harbor. Then we continued on to scale the drumlin itself. The path up the summit, such as it was, wound in a spiral. Jane and I walked with intertwined hands as Benjamin scouted ahead. Along the way, we passed older tourists rooting in the bushes by the side of the path, perhaps seeking rare plants for tinctures.

We came to the top and took in another splendid view, this time covering 360 degrees. I wandered over to a lookout from which you could see the Boston skyline in clear detail. Directly below the skyline stood a sign with a corresponding picture of the skyline, with each of the notable elements labeled: Prudential Tower, Hancock Tower, and so forth. One label made me stop and read again: LONG WARF. That almost but did not quite capture the name of where we’d boarded the ferry to get here; it was a letter short.

Jane noticed that I had been standing in front of the sign for a few minutes, so she came over. “Jeff, did you … find something?” She sounded a bit apprehensive.

“It, uh, just popped out at me.” I showed her the error. I’d known not to bring the Typo Correction Kit with me, as that would have been asking for trouble. The League would no longer be making corrections without permission, anyway. However, I couldn’t leave the sign as it was without telling someone in charge about it. Our corrective mission had to carry on, and that started today.

Benjamin agreed with me in theory. In practice, though, he was nervous. The three of us held court in the summit’s gazebo. No one else had felt the inclination to come up here, it seemed.

“So you do realize,” I said, “we have to go and point that out at the visitors’ office.” I recalled seeing a grandmotherly ranger sitting at a desk in the center; I figured we’d be able to enlist her help.

“You have to be kidding,” he said. Our year in exile had tempered his rages and enthusiasms. He’d lost his taste for trouble.

“Well, we have to stick by our principles,” I said.

“Oh, can’t we save it for the second tour?”

“Second tour?” I said.

“Second tour?” Jane echoed, alarmed.

He shrugged, pulling back. “Yeah, I was assuming we’d have to get out and do it again, man. Eventually. It’s just a little soon right now to stir the pot.”

I held firm, fixing my old colleague with a flinty gaze. “We’re off probation now, we have all our rights back. We should be fully entitled to go down there and tell them about it.”

“Yeah … I’m not looking forward to that,” said Benjamin. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to back down, but can’t we give it some time, man?”

I stood. If I’d thought to bring my Santa Fe hat, I would have put it on then. “Don’t worry about it,” I said casually. “Jane and I will take care of it.”

Jane got up, too. “Second … second tour?” she said. Her knees knocked together.

We turned and began to head back down the drumlin. A moment later, Benjamin tore by us, hollering, “I’ll get there before you do, suckas!” He trotted down the stone-lined culvert along the path. Before long, we reached level ground and walked into the visitors’ center. As we stepped inside, the kindly-looking old ranger got up from her station at the desk and ambled out to the front porch. A man in powder-blue with a sour expression sat down at the desk and leafed through a magazine.

Jane clutched my arm and whispered, “Oh no! What happened to Grandma?”

I assured her that we’d be fine asking this guy for help instead. Nevertheless, she suddenly took an interest in the historic displays several yards away from the ranger’s desk. It would be up to Benjamin and me, then. We approached the desk, and the ranger looked up from his magazine. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi there,” I said, giving him a friendly smile. “We were up on the North Drumlin, enjoying the beautiful view. While we were up there, we happened to notice a typo in a sign up there—the one that explains the view of Boston. ‘Long Wharf’ was missing its h.”

The ranger peered at us dispassionately