Jesse follows the drunk down the stairs. The man takes the steps slowly, one at a time. When they reach the echoey concourse, he hurries to a bathroom, and Jesse enters right behind him. Men and boys piss into a long metal trough, lined up like cows at their feed. The drunk slips into an open spot and unzips his trousers. He stares at the wall above the trough, humming whatever song is playing outside. Jesse wedges in beside him and mimes taking out his prick. Then, quick as a robin plucking a worm, he reaches over and lifts the drunk’s wallet from his back pocket and sticks it into his own.

The drunk is still pissing, still humming, when Jesse leaves the bathroom. Jesse walks some distance along the concourse before ducking into an alcove, where he pulls the money from the wallet and drops the wallet to the ground. He counts the bills while waiting in line at a concession stand. Fifty dollars, a decent score.

The announcer reminds everyone about the upcoming Bicentennial Fireworks Spectacular, “a night of patriotic fun for the whole family.” Jesse was born in the centennial year—1876—and he’d swear more than a hundred years have passed since then. It feels to him he’s been on the roam forever. He steps up to the counter and orders a dog for Edgar and a beer for himself.

Back in the stands the drunk is on his knees, searching for his wallet. He tosses aside empty popcorn boxes and drink cups and brushes peanut shells off his palms. “I know I had it,” he says. “You guys saw.” Jesse, coming up the steps, freezes. Not because he’s worried about the drunk fingering him, but because Edgar isn’t in his seat.

He scans the crowd, trying to recall what his brother is wearing. Jeans and his favorite Mickey Mouse T-shirt. He’s been going on about catching a foul ball, so maybe he moved closer to the field, but there’s no sign of him on the rail either.

He’s slipped away before, and Jesse usually finds him within a few minutes, quaking with fear, his wanderlust having faded as soon as he got out of sight of his brother. Three years ago, though, things played out differently, in a way that’s troubled Jesse ever since.

They got separated at a county fair in Butte, Montana, and when Jesse eventually tracked Edgar down, he was walking hand in hand with a little boy toward the exit.

“What are you doing?” Jesse asked Edgar.

“I’m hungry,” Edgar replied.

It had been only two weeks since he’d last fed—too soon for bloodlust.

“Let the boy go,” Jesse said.

“I won’t,” Edgar said and pulled the kid closer. The boy started to cry.

“Let him go, or I’ll dust you where you stand,” Jesse said.