Looking at Hank and then at Hunter. Blinking his eyes. Rubbing his bald head. Then twisting both fists into his eyes. “Need some damn meds for this double vision. Seeing two of you sons o’ bitches. One young, one old.”

“Really?” Hank said. “Well, maybe two halves make a whole.”

Hunter was searching dusty corners he had not been in a long time. Things he had forgotten. Uncovering pain. Other aches he need not go looking for, because he couldn’t miss them if he tried—the pain that burned in his right knee, for instance.

Voices dropped and echoed in his mind, and he felt as if he were in a cave or a hole in the ground. Hands gripped and pawed. Looking around at his vault of memories, he couldn’t recall a time when he had seen them, Annie and Hank, alone together.

Always in the company of his grandfather or himself or Sid. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dug deeper. Came to a door. It was cracked. His eyes wandered, meeting the break of light. Peeking into the room. Sounds of skin and bedclothes. Lips, wet. Hank whispering, “We can’t. We can’t. It’s not right. Sid is a good friend.”

Annie whispering back, “Things you don’t know. I’m dying inside. I don’t like it when you’re gone on the road.”

There is the sound of a big diesel truck engine. Loud, then throttling down. Shutting off. Cracks and pops of an engine cooling. Creak of a door. Footsteps. Voices. Reassurances. Hunter’s eyes flutter open. Darkness. Headlights. Making out the shadows and shapes. Bending his neck. It’s stiff. His face is taking a sideways glance, his bike the same, on its side.

“You’re alive.” Rolling his eyes. Looking up, it’s Itch. “Hang tight, brother. You were out cold. ’Bout took out a damn buffalo!”

Things are coming back to him. The bison came from nowhere—a roadblock, an obstruction on the highway. Inhaling, he can still smell the great beast in his nostrils, taste it on his lips. Its fur sliding across his face. Hunter tries to push himself up, bend his knees.

“Take it easy. You slid under that damn thing.”

“My bike?”

“I think it’s okay. It’s you we’re concerned about.”

Hunter starts twisting and stretching, testing, making sure everything gives or bends the way it’s supposed to. There is some hurt. Burning sensations. But no cracking. Everything is movable. Nothing broken or hurt bad—nothing some soap and water and bandages can’t handle. Pushing his palms to the highway, the pavement is rough and warm. Off to the side, in the distance behind him, sits a Chevy Silverado. Hands reach under Hunter’s arms, lifting and grunting, helping him stand. Taking steps, he has balance. Equilibrium. Strong arms guide him, not letting go until he can feel blood flowing in his limbs. Moving toward his bike.