No good reason.

“Your old man could have come back. Women are always willing to make allowances. But he didn’t.”

No, he didn’t.

“And what if you find him? What you going to do then? Man’s going to be a stranger. And he could be a whole lot worse.”

I thanked Floyd for the ride and for lunch.

“Long as you’re in Clinton, you should see the big plastic Indian in front of Howe Motors. Can’t miss it. Number one tourist attraction hereabouts.”

SO WE’RE IN PRAGUE.

The cramps finally relent. I lie on the floor, exhausted, my leg jammed between the toilet and the wall to keep pressure on the muscle.

And I have no plans to move.

Mimi brings a blanket and a pillow. “I’m going back to sleep,” she says. “Try not to wake me.”

Kitty sits by the door, her arms wrapped around her knees. Muscle cramps can be an indicator of debilitating diseases such as ALS and muscular dystrophy.

How come we always wind up with the shit? says Chip.

What are you going to do when Mimi leaves you? says Kitty. She’s not going to want to live with a cripple.

Eugene tries to look sympathetic. Can’t say you don’t deserve it.

The twins lie down beside me and take most of the blanket.

I don’t get much sleep. The floor of the bathroom is hard. Each time I have to get up to pee, my leg threatens to seize up. I give up on sleep around seven. Mimi is on the bed in the aftermath of a crocodile death roll, the covers wrapped around her so tightly, it would take a chainsaw to cut her free.

“You awake?”

“No.”

“It’s time for breakfast.”

“You go,” she says. “I had a late night.”

“You should meet Oz.”

“I should sleep.”

I find the lump in the covers that appears to be Mimi’s head and kiss it. “They stop serving at nine thirty.”

“Stay away from the pastries,” she tells me. “You know what they do to your blood sugars.”

FLOYD DROPPED ME OFF on South Fourth Street.

“What’d I tell you.” Floyd tapped out a quick rhythm on the steering wheel. “Big sucker, ain’t he?”

The Indian standing in the car lot was enormous.

“Back in the day, if you guys had looked like that,” said Floyd, “things might have gone a lot different.”

On the big Indian’s belt was “Howe Motors.” I didn’t get the joke right away. And then I did. Indian. Howe. Howe. Indian. Not terribly funny, not terribly stupid. Something out of a high school yearbook.

Floyd pulled the car into gear. “Not much to the town,” he said. “Follow this street, take a left at West Gary, and you’ll wind up back at the highway.”