Outside town, cruising down Evergreen Drive. His dad’s home is in a nice area with plenty of seclusion. Hunter hasn’t visited in more than five years. Hank’s house is easy to find: it is the only one with yellow police tape surrounding the stone foundation of what used to be a house. Now just two charred walls still stand with blackened beams and no roof. The freestanding garage was damaged by the fire but had not burned down. Everything is remnants—objects that Hunter can’t recall. Unfamiliar.

Throttling the bike down, he wheels off the driveway. Drives around the blackened ruin, over freshly spread red cedar mulch. Rolls to a stop. Turns his bike off. His boots press into the earth as he sits studying the place. The surrounding woods are silent and peaceful. Getting off the bike. Walking around. Glancing down the driveway, across the road to where his uncle’s home stands. Leaving Nugget’s bike behind, Hunter walks the driveway. Crosses the road, heads toward his uncle’s house of brick and wood. Green boxwood in the beds around the entrance. Manicured yard, as uniform and weedless as Astroturf. A well-kept property.

Front curtains of a bay window move. Someone is eyeing Hunter before he gets to the porch to knock.

The front door opens, and his uncle David comes walking down the concrete steps. Gray hair, handlebar mustache, he stands nearly six feet two inches. Looks as though he is still pressing the iron. Still fit for his age. Approaches Hunter with arms spread wide.

“Goddamn, you’re bigger than last time I seen you, Hunter. Guess you get good red meat over there in the Carolinas?”

Taking in the warmth of his uncle’s embrace, patting his back. Releasing him, Hunter laughs. “Yeah. I can’t complain.”

“Where’s your buddies?”

“Well, one is in Colorado. I hit a fucking bison.”

“Say that again?”

“Yeah, a damn buffalo. Son of a bitch was in the road. Nugget stayed back to get my bike patched up and meet up after. Then had another situation in Utah. But Itch shouldn’t be too far behind me. He’s got your address in his GPS.”

“Damn it, son, trouble seems to follow you.”

“What I get for being a good Samaritan—well, pretty good Samaritan. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Well, get your bike. Park it over here and unload your gear, whatever you got. The guest rooms are ready for some company. Then we can talk, get you to the lawyer’s office, get the documents signed.”