Samuel is Real Deal’s true name. Hearing it makes him blink. He takes his knife from the bartender’s throat, goes over to the flag, and yanks it off the wall. Neither of the old men say anything as the Fiends walk out the door, Real Deal carrying the flag. Yuma’s the last to leave. She tosses a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and says, “Ain’t you lucky.”

Out in the parking lot, Real Deal uses a siphon hose to pull enough gas from his bike’s tank to soak the flag. He tosses a match. Flames claw at the stars, and the flag burns to nothing as the Fiends clatter off into the night.

5

5

JESSE CAN’T SLEEP. EVERY TIME HE DOZES OFF, A JOLT SHOOTS through him, zapping him back to wakefulness. He gives up after an hour, crawls out of bed and sits at the little table in front of the motel room’s curtained window. He thinks about putting on the television but doesn’t want to disturb Edgar, who’s snoring away on the other bed.

Abby is curled beside Edgar, protective as a good dog, yellow eyes blazing in her coal-black head. Edgar turned the cat twenty years ago behind Jesse’s back. Jesse hates the damn thing and she knows it, hissing whenever he gets near and swiping at him, claws out, if he makes to touch her. He’d have gotten rid of her a long time ago if she didn’t calm Edgar. Petting her brings Edgar out of his worst tantrums and brightens him when he’s at his bluest. So Jesse puts up with the hissing and the scratching, the foul-smelling food and even fouler shit box.

He picks up Edgar’s deck of cards, intending to play Klondike. A slash of sunlight that’s pushed between the curtains cuts the table in half. He stares at the beam while he shuffles, tracks the dust motes schooling in it like fish in a lustrous sea. Then, as if in a trance, he puts down the cards and slides his index finger into the light.

The pain is sudden and intense. He grits his teeth against it. A wisp of smoke rises from a knuckle, the flesh blackens and chars, a blister swells. He pulls the finger back, and as soon as it’s out of the sun, the burn begins to heal. A few seconds later he can’t even tell where the damage was. Enough, he thinks, but can’t stop, is never able to. He thrusts his finger into the beam again, again it starts to cook, and again he pulls it back as he’s about to scream. He repeats the ritual until he’s finally worn out enough to sleep.