He stumbled his way to the truck that was parked at an angle near the tall, flashing neon sign that said “Mike’s Tavern” in bright orange. He stood by the truck door digging in his pockets for the keys and getting soaked by the rain. His motor skills had been sufficiently dulled by the gallons of alcohol he had poured into himself in an effort to once again erase the nightmare that this day had been. As a result his hands slowly and clumsily went from one jeans pocket to the next. He then he checked his shirt pockets, and then all his jeans pockets again.

The rain intensified the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated his clothes, and as he checked all of his pockets again, to no avail, he simply opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. The familiar buzzing sound when he opened the door told him the keys he had been searching for were still in the ignition, and after several seconds of trying to get himself situated in the driver’s seat, he slammed the door shut and started the engine. Water poured off his hat and onto his lap. He fumbled for the switch to turn on the headlights, and after finding it and pulling it out, he jammed the transmission into gear and jerked the truck forward into the road. About the same time, the flashing neon sign behind him went dark.

Miraculously, Henry found Route 6, the road that headed in the direction of the ranch, and even more miraculously, thirty miles later he found the gravel road off Route 6 that took him to the ranch. He hit the shoulder and crossed the centerline more times than he could count—if he were to try to count—which he wouldn’t, and now on the gravel road with no shoulder he was doing everything he could just to keep the truck out of the ditch. Henry wasn’t driving fast. He rarely did, even when he was sober. It was still no easy task keeping the truck on the road, and it took all the concentration he could muster, concentration that kept being interrupted with three words circulating through his whiskey-soaked mind, words he could swear Annie was saying to him: “Time to change,” she said in her smiling voice. Henry blinked hard and rubbed his eyes trying to focus on the road. “Time to change, Henry,” the voice repeated.

The voice was interrupted when in the distance and through the rain and dark, the main gate of the ranch slowly came into range of his headlights. It was a big thing, with two heavy, round wooden uprights twenty feet tall on either side of the entrance to the mile-long driveway that led to the main grounds of the ranch. Between the uprights hung a large, heavy wooden sign. In the middle of the sign was a two-foot tall, wood-carved Rafter Seven brand. On the left side of the brand were the words: “Established in 1889,” and on the right side of the brand read: “James T. Hill and Sons Cattle Company.”