‘I don’t understand. How did I get here?’

‘You were carried.’

‘By you?’

There’s a theatrical bit of throat clearing behind us as Winfred eases his bulk off a stool in the corner.

‘Hey, Mrs Coleman!’

‘Winfred found you,’ Duval says. ‘He’s the rodeo champion haybale tosser so he’s used to hauling dead weights around.’

Winfred cracks a grin. ‘How you feeling, Mrs Coleman?’

‘You owe me a hundred and seventy dollars,’ I say weakly.

‘Ha ha, Mrs Coleman.’ He chuckles nervously. Duval looks at him.

‘Speeding fines,’ he pleads half-heartedly.

Duval shakes his head. ‘You can’t help it, can you? At heart you’re just a no-good thieving Indian.’

‘Aw, come on, Duval,’ Winfred says coyly.

‘Give Mrs Coleman back her money.’

Winfred smirks and reaches into his wallet. Duval takes the bills from him and counts out $150.

‘Deduct a twenty for your trouble. I’m sure Mrs Coleman wouldn’t begrudge a little road recovery fee.’ He hands me the wad of dollars.

‘Were you following me, Winfred?’

‘Naw.’

‘I heard you.’

‘Winfred’s tracking is not what it used to be.’ Duval flicks him in the gut. ‘Too fat to be light on his feet.’

Winfred pushes out his chest. ‘It’s all muscle, bro, check it out.’

‘Like hell – you only have to be downwind of the smell of food to put on weight.’

‘It’s true,’ Winfred says proudly. ‘If a truck hauling potato chips drives along my road while I’m asleep, I wake up two pounds heavier in the morning.’

Not prepared to be charmed quite yet, I tuck the money into the pocket of my shirt.

‘What about all those other times in the car, Winfred? Were you following me then too?’

‘Duval told me to watch out for you.’

‘Why?’ I look from one to the other.

‘Ma’am, I mean, well . . . look at you. You’re not bully-beef.’ Winfred sounds in no way apologetic. ‘Duval was worried you’d be a magnet for every weirdo in this state.’

‘Really,’ I say drily. ‘Well, seems he was right.’

Winfred chuckles and slaps Duval on the back. ‘I’ll come back later.’

‘Oh, sure . . . go.’ Duval grins. ‘Leave when the going gets tough.’

I look at him curiously. This Duval is so utterly unlike the Duval of the perpetual frown and disapproving comments. One of the Mexicans passes Winfred in the doorway. He’s wearing a grubby Guess USA T-shirt and a University of Wisconsin baseball hat. He’s new on the site, well ... at least the hat and shirt are. Silently, he hands Duval a white cloth and a bottle of witchy purple liquid then retreats awkwardly, knocking his hip against the door frame on his way out.

I take a look around the long narrow room.

‘So this is where you live?’

‘Some of the time.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

‘There are other places I go.’