THE ONLY BOB LEFT COMES TO ON HIS BACK, THE NIGHT SKY snapping into focus. Half a second earlier he was ten years old and swimming in the East River with kids he grew up with, Tommy Boyle treading water and reciting a limerick.

There was a young man of Leeds

Who swallowed a packet of seeds

Great tufts of grass

Sprouted out of his ass

And his balls were all covered with weeds.

But he’s back in Arizona now, lying at the bottom of a mountain, a sharp rock poking his liver. The pain when he straightens his broken left arm with his good right one nearly makes him scream.

He knew when he jumped the fall wouldn’t kill him, but he’s pretty sure he got as close to dying as he ever has before. If the fuckers up top came after him now, it’d be all over. He wouldn’t be able to fight back. He lifts his head to look around. Nothing but moon rocks and stunted cactus. He tries to hurry the healing by concentrating on where he hurts most.

Half an hour later his bones have knit enough that he can stand. He stomps to test his legs and sets off down the mountain. It’s a little after midnight. Five hours until dawn. He picks up his pace. Town is a long way off.

He comes to a trail, follows that until it hits a Jeep track, and follows that to pavement, the road back to Phoenix. He walks on the shoulder, ducking when cars pass. Distances out here are deceptive. He sees the lights of a ranch up ahead and figures it’ll take fifteen minutes to reach it. An hour later the lights are as far away as ever. His plan was to get back to the motel on his own, but he worries he might have miscalculated, might wind up in the open at sunrise, so when he comes to a crossroads, a four-way stop with a red signal blinking above it, he hides in the scrub and waits.

A pickup driving toward Phoenix approaches. Bob steps out in front of it, hands in the air. With his face smeared with dried blood, he’s a nightmare come to life. Still, the truck stops.

“What’s wrong?” the driver asks.

“I flipped my bike,” Bob replies. He fakes a limp as he moves to the window. The driver is a kid with a flattop and thick glasses. He’s wearing white pants and a white shirt with the words Danziger Dairy embroidered on it.

“Are you hurt?” the kid says.

“I’m banged up, but I’ll live,” Bob says. “My bike’s trash, though. I could use a lift into town.”

“I’m on my way to work,” the kid says.

Bob pulls a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “Drop me at the first pay phone.”

“Keep your money,” the kid says. “Get in back.”