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“She’s easy on the eyes.”

Chance turned to find Amos’s chair filled by a fit-looking man his own age wearing a bright yellow down jacket. His short black hair had a touch of gray at the temples.

“Hello, Matt.”

“Hello, Chance... Out already. Good behavior?”

“Good enough.”

“Glad to have you back.” Matt set his whiskey on the bar.

“You follow me from my dad’s?”

“More or less. Thought we should chat, since you’re a free man.”

“I’m not sure how free, but okay.”

Matt centered his drink between index fingers. “Lots of free time, at any rate. Enough time to work off some debt.” Matt looked at him for the first time.

“Sure,” Chance said from behind his glass. “Just not sure how.”

“I have a few ideas.”

“I can’t make any runs into Canada, if that’s what you have in mind.”

“Fucking A, you can’t. Legal or otherwise.”

“Well?”

Matt drained his drink. “Be creative. Rob a bank.”

“Great.” Chance turned in his chair. “I’ll sling all the weed you can give me but I need to keep a low profile.”

“That’s not going to work. Town’s too small. And it would take a lifetime to earn off that much.” Matt stood. “Walk me out.”

They came out into the second-floor parking lot, ringed by motel rooms on all sides. The moon was up and gleaming through an iridescent layer of cloud. Matt fumbled with his keychain and a red Suburban yawned to life in the parking lot.

“Matt, I don’t have that kind of money, and I’m never going to have it without selling dope. Plain and simple.”

“Join the club. I’m already losing my ass to medical marijuana. Anyone with a card can run out to a trailer house in Vaughn and buy in broad daylight. I need to be retired in five years. I need that money.”

“What can I do? I got caught.”

“Not my problem. You gave a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of weed swimming lessons, not me. Fuck you. Find it.”

“Fuck you, too. Maybe I can ask your mom the fucking cash fairy for it.”

If it hadn’t been for the drinks, he might have caught Matt swinging. The punch hit his gut through the heavy coat and he was going backward and Matt was on top of him, throwing right after right into Chance’s nose. Matt was still fond of his class ring. The sound of Matt yelling, getting fainter. Something red going all over Matt’s bright yellow jacket.

“Lucky.”

There was a circle of light but a shape loomed in and eclipsed it. Something was spinning and he discovered it was the world.

“Hey, Lucky. You still alive?”

“Amos,” he croaked, remembering. He sort of sat up.

“Easy, Lucky.” Amos helped him stand, then held his arm while Chance leaned over to vomit. When he was finished he tried to lay down for a nap, but Amos pulled him upright. “Not a good idea. You look like you got beat up by five Indians, and three of them was my cousins.”

“Oh my God!” Behind them the door to the motel held the silhouette of a woman, a hand to her mouth. “I’m calling the cops.”

Amos let go of Chance’s arm and raised his palms. “No, no. I just found him.”

From the ground, Chance put up a hand. “He’s okay. He’s Amos. Amos, Amy.”

Amy held her phone, ready to dial. Her hair wasn’t quite dry from the pool. A halo of steam framed her face in the yellow courtyard light. Chance thought she looked pretty good, but he could really use a nap.

Amos and Amy each took an arm and lifted Chance to his feet. He pointed toward the International and they dragged him over, sitting him in the passenger side. Amy probed his nose with a finger and winced. “You need to go to the ER.”

“No ER. No police. Just give me a second.”

Amos and Amy shared a glance. Amos shrugged. “Your call, Lucky.”

Chance tried to fish the keys from his jeans but razors shaved his fingertips. “I think my hands are frostbit.”

Amos shook his head. “I’m not gettin’ ’em.”

Amy shot him a look and sighed. She reached in Chance’s pocket, pulled out the keys, then walked around to the driver’s side. “Guess I’m driving.”

She got in and turned the key: nothing. “It’s dead. When was the last time you drove this thing much?”

“Five years,” Chance groaned.

“That sounds about right.” She slid the vehicle into neutral. “Amos, can you help me push it?”

Amos and Amy leaned into the front grille and got the truck backed into the center of the courtyard.

Amos touched her arm. “You get in and I’ll push you down the ramp. Get him to the ER. Nice to meet you, Amy.”

“You too. Take care.” She hopped in and slammed the door. From the far edge of the cab Chance mumbled, “It’s a stick.”

“I know, genius. That’s why this shit will work.” Amos put his shoulder against the tailgate and the truck inched forward, tires crunching in dry snow. The wheels cleared the edge of the parking ramp and took off.

Amy waited till the bottom of the ramp before popping the clutch. The engine caught and roared to life.

Chance sat up as she turned onto the street. “Really. I’m okay. Not my first fight.”

“Sure looks like it was. Did you even land a punch?” She pulled over and let the truck idle.

“Don’t recall. But, hey. Amy, how you been? You still married?”

“I’m going to make a judgment call here. You probably aren’t going to die at this point, and I’m guessing this has something to do with your time in prison. So I’m going to let you drive yourself home if you can. I’m not going to be involved in whatever this is. But you have to call me when you get there, so I know you made it.”

She scribbled a number on a card from her wallet and tucked it into the dash. “Can you drive home?”

He slid over as she stepped out onto the street. “I’ll be fine. But can we go for a beer sometime?”

“A convicted felon with shitty friends, a shitty truck, and a broken nose,” she purred. “Mmm... tell me more.” But she pecked his bruised cheek before closing the door.

He awoke the next afternoon in the farmhouse’s back bedroom. His nose had bled through the sheets, but he could smell the sawdust-and-baby-powder scent of the house. He got up and made coffee to the ticking of the old mantel clock in the front room. The house was cool but not cold and it looked like his father had left everything in place. Hopefully.

Back in his room, he reached under the bed: the box was still there. He tipped it open and drew out the .357, worn but clean. He broke it open and loaded five rounds, leaving the one on the chamber empty. The gun barely fit in the inside pocket of the Pendleton coat.

Driving out from the old place, he topped the rise leading to the county road.

A tan military-spec Humvee sat parked at the pullout along the square chain-link enclosure where giant signs read, WARNING: USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED, in red. The missile silo had been on their ground since his grandfather’s time. Joking about the sale, Chance’s dad had called it a pot-sweetener for Charlie Carter: “Property includes one Minuteman III missile, well-maintained, never fired.” Now Chance drove past the Humvee and lifted a few fingers off the wheel. The nineteen-year-old airman in the rig gave a curt nod from behind wraparound shades.

Chance drove around town. He had a pint of Jim Beam from the state liquor store between his legs. He let the truck take him wherever. He rolled to a stop in front of the high school, then eased out the clutch and pulled away. He turned onto Central headed for downtown.

The line of stone storefronts leered from either side, the pulled-molar gaps where businesses used to be. It was nearing five o’clock and the cold blue light of evening was settling in. Passing the burned-out drugstore he saw a friendly shape at the curb: Amos. Catching sight of the International, a big grin spread over the Indian’s face and he put up a burly set of dukes. Chance slowed to lift the pint in salute, but Amos crossed behind him with a wave and was gone.