“Alright,” he says, “be that way.” He says it like he’s joking, but there’s an edge. It kind of throws me off balance, but I’m so tired. My eyes don’t want to stay open. I get in my car and follow him. He drives hard. Squeals around corners, blows through stop signs. I have to work to keep his taillights in sight. I start to think that maybe I should just drive the other way, cut my losses and sleep in my car somewhere, but it’s one of those rock and hard place situations. Keeping up with him means I haven’t been watching the roads. I don’t know how to get back to where we started, so I just keep following.

He parks at the dead end of a dirt road. Ranch houses and double wides line the street. He lives in a ranch that looks like a gust of wind could smash it to smithereens. The front steps are decaying. The outside light is busted. The only light in the driveway comes from his neighbor’s house.

He’s already out of his car and opening the front door when I park. I bring my guitar and my purse with me. I never leave them in my car if I can help it.

“Come on in,” he says.

He has four guitars, a futon, a glass-topped coffee table, and a television in his living room. The TV is one of those ancient ones with dials on the front, and it has rabbit ears tipped with aluminum foil.

His house smells like old tires. Just this hint of it at the end of breathing in. I wonder how close we are to the highway. I listen, but I can’t hear road noise. I leave my guitar and my purse by the door.

“Okay,” he says, “you have to play the Martin first. That’s my favorite. That’s the one you should get if you have a windfall. I got it in trade a few years ago. Swear it sounds better the more you play it. It’ll cost you, but the tone is unreal.”

He checks that it’s in tune and hands it over to me. It’s much heavier than my guitar.

While I’m playing, he dumps a small baggie of coke on the coffee table and cuts it into lines with a guitar pick.