Joe put Rasta on his leash, and the little dog danced around, anxious to go on a walk. The sidewalk was hot for Rasta’s feet, so Joe carried him most of the way but put the dog down to take advantage of a little strip of dirt between the sidewalk and the street. He let Rasta have a few happy moments of sniffing and peeing before they continued on their short way.

As Joe pushed open the glass door, he realized he could not remember ever entering Gas N Go twice in consecutive days. Teacher was making change for a customer who’d bought gas, and when the rancher had climbed back into his pickup and pulled out onto the Davy highway, Teacher said, “What an honor! What’s up, Joe?”

“Close early tonight,” Joe said.

“What? Come again?”

“Close before dark. Go home. Make sure Madonna and Grady are inside. Lock your doors. Don’t go out. Tonight, and the next two nights.”

“What’s up?” Teacher wasn’t as surprised to be given this message as he would have been a year ago. And he didn’t question Joe’s word.

“Will you do this?” he asked.

“Yeah, Joe. I’ll do it. Do I need to get my rifle out?”

Joe sighed heavily. “If you don’t go out, you won’t need it,” he said. “Will you tell Madonna, or do I need to go over to the restaurant?”

“She’ll take this better if it comes from you.”

Joe thought that was an odd thing to say, because as far as he knew, Madonna and Teacher had a companionable marriage, but he wasn’t going to question Teacher any more than Teacher had questioned him. He nodded and left, going straight across the road to the hotel and walking west to the restaurant, taking advantage of another patch of shade to let Rasta get a bit of exercise. Madonna and Dillon were having a conversation about the nature of true barbecue, a discussion that could go on forever, especially in Texas. Madonna was sitting on one of the stools cutting up tomatoes in a leisurely way, and Dillon was wiping down the plastic envelopes that enclosed the menus.

Their heads turned to the door simultaneously when the bell chimed, and Madonna cast an anxious glance to one of the booths, where Grady was stretched out asleep. Dillon, who was always glad to see a customer, smiled in a surprised kind of way, because it was before five o’clock.

“Hey, Mr. Joe,” he said. “You want a table? Or you want to sit up here with us? I can bring you some iced tea.”

Joe shook his head.

Madonna put down her knife and wiped her hands on her apron. “Can I fix you something to take home for supper? Roast beef isn’t ready yet, but I can come up with something.”

“No, thanks. What time have you been closing?” Joe asked.