Sanders runs down the items in his arsenal: the .45 Jesse took from him, a new shotgun, and ammo for both; a knife; a few ice picks; a hacksaw. Jesse’s got two pistols he picked up at Beaumont’s, a .38 revolver and a 9mm automatic, and his hunting knife. That should be enough. In the end it won’t come down to which side is better armed anyway, it’ll be who fights hardest.

Edgar wants to watch television. All that’s on are Sunday-morning church services and Bicentennial specials. Today’s the Fourth of July, the 200th anniversary of the USA, but Jesse couldn’t give two shits. His country has no flag, no anthem, no chorus girls dressed in red, white, and blue. It’s a wasteland where lost souls prey on other lost souls. It’s the hunger, the hunt, and the blood that comes after.

Edgar and Sanders are asleep before long. Jesse is exhausted too, but doesn’t trust Sanders not to make a move if he naps. He sits at the table, and the hours crawl past. To keep away thoughts of Claudine and Johona, he concentrates on the faint pop pop pop of distant firecrackers and the rumble of the maid’s laundry cart on the walkway outside, on the twitching of Abby’s tail and the fluttering of the pages of Sanders’s Bible in the breeze from the air conditioner.

Despite his best efforts, he dozes off. When he jerks back to wakefulness, Bob Hope is on television, dressed like George Washington. Jesse turns off the set and paces the room to get his blood flowing.

Sanders wakes and spends some time writing in a notebook.

“What’s that?” Jesse asks him.

“A letter to my wife,” Sanders replies.

“How long’s it been since you’ve seen her?”

“Too long,” Sanders says. He closes the book and puts it in his bag. “This room’s given me a chill,” he says. “Can I go sit by the pool?”

“I can’t let you do that,” Jesse says.

“You’ve got the keys to the truck, my wallet, and Beaumont. I’m not going to run off. I give you my word.”

“What’s that worth to me?”

“It’s everything to me.”

Jesse stares at Sanders long and hard, trying to read his mind. Sanders stares right back.

“Don’t be gone long,” Jesse says.

“I thank you,” Sanders says.

“Just so you know,” Jesse says before he steps outside. “I called a friend. If he doesn’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, he’ll go to your house in my stead.” This is a lie, but even if Sanders doubts it, Jesse figures it’ll make him think twice about trying anything.

Edgar sits up.

“Jesse.”

“What?”

“I pissed myself.”

“Goddamn it,” Jesse says. His patience has been worn down to nothing. “Take the fucking sheets off.”

“You,” Edgar says.