Dead sagebrush lines a dusty concrete pad. A not-quite-bald tire leans beside the cracked and peeling red front door. Cory twists the knob. The door creaks open. Stepping inside, Cory leaves the door ajar. Hunter and Itch follow several feet behind him, feeling a creeping sense of unease. Hunter tries not to imagine what’s inside. And Itch starts whispering, “Don’t like this. Don’t like this. What if there’s dead bodies? Maniacs. Cannibals sitting in there waiting on supper?”

“Pipe it down, Itch.”

The dead air reeks like a thawed freezer. The thin floorboards give under their weight. The only sound is that of the little overmatched window unit. The house is in a state of neglect, looking as if no one inhabited the interior. Trash is thrown around as if the place were a squat for junkies or meth heads. Balled-up newspapers. Dirty dishes, stacked without organization. More dishes fill a sink the shade of beef broth. Clothing tossed and piled wherever. Kitchen counter and table are lined with pill bottles and Ziploc bags of pills.

What the fuck? Hunter asks himself. His Spidey senses are flaring. “Where’s your dad?”

“Not sure. He was here when I left. Like I said outside, probably taking a nap.”

Itch walks to the counter. “What’s the deal with all these pills?”

“It’s what he does.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” The kid won’t meet his eyes.

“Hold up,” Hunter says. “No one’s judging your situation. But what’s going on here, what it looks like . . . I can’t leave you here.”

“You’ll take me with you?” Cory says, the eagerness in his voice hard to miss.

“I’ll get you outta here. This situation. These conditions. I’ll get you away from this. It’s not right, and it sure as shit ain’t safe.”

From the dark interior of the house comes the heavy clomp of feet, the click of a hammer.

“Ain’t taking my boy nowheres. Cory, what kind of scooter trash you bringing in here?”

The guy has hair as messy as a hawk’s nest, unshaven, neck beard, no shirt. Religiously pale.

“Bikers,” Cory says. “Gave me a lift. Bought me some snacks down at Elmer’s.”

“You some kinda narcs, working with the local pork? ATF? The judge?”

The man’s eyes are bottomless pits without a glimmer of mercy. Hunter says, “No. Just giving your son a lift.” He studies the pistol. Taurus revolver. Six shots.

“Well, looks like you gave it. What you in my home for, snooping where you got no concern?”

“Wanted to make sure Cory wasn’t alone.”

“Really, that how it is?”

The guy looks three-steps-from-the-sanitarium insane. As if things are breaking apart in his brain.

“Yeah, that’s how it is. Kid shouldn’t be home without some supervision.”