Down the long dirt frontage road heading back to the bungalow Sherman had trouble remembering exactly where he was. For a while, he thought he might be back in Arizona working at the stockyards. He could smell the blood. He had to jerk his head up and stare at the horizon line to remind himself but he still didn’t recognize the terrain. He hadn’t had this panic of aloneness for a long, long time. The sun had reached that vertical zenith of the day when Sherman felt the back of his collar might actually catch fire. He adjusted his Stetson but the disadvantage of the “Open Road” in full sun was the short brim. His whole back seemed like it was blazing now and his head was like a steam kettle. He knew something was moving him but his mind wasn’t able to fully connect with the pulse of his body. He watched the toes of his boots punching through the dust. He watched the cadence of his swinging arms but somehow felt outside the rhythm of it. As he approached the bungalow he caught a splinter of sun bouncing off Dean’s matching horseshoe bolo. He saw Dean out on the porch sitting in the rocker, facing him. He knew it was Dean but he didn’t say anything or even acknowledge him with a hand gesture. Dean didn’t move either. He just sat there, stock-still, in the rocker facing out and silent. When Sherman walked right past him and went into the house Dean never moved an inch; just kept staring straight ahead. Dean could hear Sherman fishing around in the bedroom closet for something; opening and closing dresser drawers. None of the sounds Sherman was making had any anger about them or seemed intended to get a rise out of Dean. They just sounded like someone was in there looking for something or trying to sort things out. Finally Sherman came back out through the screen door with a small canvas duffel bag full of his things. The duffel had “U.S. ARMY” stamped on it in white by the broken zipper. In his other hand he carried a ukulele in a small green case with a piece of rope tied around it in a square knot. Sherman never paused or turned his head or made so much as a sound except for his boots crossing the porch and going down the stairs to the sand. Dean kept watching Sherman’s sweat-stained back as he walked further and further away from him down the dirt frontage road. He kept an eye on the X that Sherman’s suspenders made between the shoulder blades. He watched the X get smaller. Suddenly Dean stood bolt upright from the rocker and walked right to the very edge of the porch and stopped dead still. His voice cracked a little as he yelled out to Sherman. It had been a long time since he’d yelled at anyone and his voice was a little shocked by it: “It wasn’t my idea, it was hers!!” he yelled. Sherman never turned around. He just kept walking.