They pay their admission to a zitty kid behind the candy counter. The only snacks for sale are warm sodas and stale popcorn. Elijah gooses Antonia while they wait at the back of the theater for their eyes to adjust. “Don’t you touch me,” she says. Someone’s fucking someone on-screen. The moans aren’t synched to the action, and the print is so bad, it’s like watching a catfish flap its gills through the glass of a filthy aquarium, rhythmic flailing in greenish murk. They sit as far from the other patrons as possible, but even so, one of the sewer rats pops up to leer at Antonia. A hard look from Elijah sends him back into his hole.

Elijah tries to follow the movie, but there’s not much story to keep track of. Squinting at the screen, he wonders if this is what it’s like to be a ghost, if after you die, you’re doomed to peer from the dark into the light, the living world just out of focus, a smear of writhing bodies, speeding cars, and ringing telephones. He leans over to whisper this thought to Antonia, but she’s fast asleep.

The Fiends reconvene by the pool near dawn.

“Nothing?” Antonia says.

“We drove our section five times,” Real Deal says.

“We got something,” Bob says, and tells everybody about Darren. “Maybe the next one we find’ll know something about those that dusted Bob.”

“And maybe not,” Real Deal says. “Maybe they’ve already hit the road. Maybe we ought to hit the road too.”

Bob bristles. “We’re not giving up,” he says. “Not after one fucking night.”

“I’m not talking about giving up,” Real Deal says. “I’m talking about looking for them someplace else.”

Antonia just wants to get to bed. “We’ll go out again tomorrow,” she says, “switch routes and put fresh eyes on everything.”

“However you want to do it,” Bob says, “but we’re not giving up.”

Johnny hands him a can of beer. He presses it to the back of his neck, trying to cool off.

After another restless day, the Fiends set out for a second night of searching. Bob rides with Pedro and Johnny again. They’re covering downtown this evening. Lots more people on the street, lots more places you might find a rover.

They take a break at a hamburger stand. An old alky trying to place an order at the window can’t keep his pants up. They’re too big for him—probably pulled out of a trash can—but he keeps forgetting and letting go of the belt loops, whereupon the trousers drop to his ankles, exposing his skinny legs and bare ass until he squats to yank them up again.

“Be a good boy and give your dad your belt,” Bob says to Johnny.