“We’ve got a good place,” Bob 2 says.

“And bury it deep when you’re done.”

The Bobs put the sack in one of Bob 2’s saddlebags and blast off. They take Central south. Bright and bustling downtown gives way to dark warehouses and auto-body shops, which give way to brand-new tracts of homes bounded by freshly planted palm trees. Out past these they ride across the desert until the road narrows and climbs a mountain. Near the top they turn onto a dirt road that leads to a spot overlooking the city.

They’ve been here before, to drink beer and get stoned. Teenagers use it as a lovers’ lane, but tonight they have it to themselves. They park at the edge of the flat and dismount. Bob 2 takes the sack out of his saddlebag.

The ruins of an old adobe cabin sit on a ledge fifty feet downslope from the overlook. The Fiends sidestep along the steep, slippery trail leading to it. Rocks and dirt loosed by their passage cascade down the mountain. Bob 2 trips, and the jolt startles the baby. She lets out a yell Bob swears will be heard all the way back in town.

“Shut it up,” Bob 1 says.

“You know of a magic word?” Bob 2 says.

“Try singing.”

“I’ll try stomping its brains out if it doesn’t stop soon,” Bob 2 says. He cradles and rocks the sack, quieting the kid to a fuss.

The Fiends enter the cabin by ducking under a low doorway. The roof has collapsed, and the floor is littered with rubble. The walls still standing are spattered with graffiti. A pentagram, a skull and crossbones, a broken heart. Bob 2 sets the sack down, and he and Bob 1 step through a breach in the north wall to where there’s an old rock garden. Bob 1 pulls out a pint of Seagram’s, has a sip, and passes it to Bob 2. The men catch their breaths while contemplating the lights of Phoenix.

“I remember this town when there were still horses on the streets,” Bob 1 says.

“You are as old as dinosaur shit,” Bob 2 says.

“Don’t I know it. I see twenty-two in the mirror but feel a hundred and twenty-two.”

“It’s all in your mind.”

“I’m not so sure. Years have weight.”

“Look at Elijah, born in seventeen-something and still going strong.”

“Maybe it’s the pace I’m living at, always on the run.”

Bob 2 nods toward the cabin, toward the baby.

“Wait’ll you suck on that,” he says. “You’ll be raring to go again.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Bob 1 says.

“Uh oh.”

“I want the kid to myself. I want a whole year where I don’t have to hunt, not just six months.”

“To do what?”

“I’m gonna go to Cuba and find the girl who turned me.”

Bob 2 is shocked by this, hurt even. “Are you serious?” he says.

“I need a purpose.”

“You need not to complicate things.”