Laying his mat on the ground, then his sleeping bag. Now everyone is laid back, chewing jerky, sipping suds, and crunching chips. “What’s his story?” Itch asks.

“Told you, couldn’t get his campfire lit. Thought I’d be a good scout, offer some help.”

“Well now, ain’t you sweet.”

“More’n you’ll ever know.” Hunter chuckles. “Guess we’ll head to Indiana at first light. That work for you guys?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

To muttered complaints, Hunter rousts his two wingmen in the thin gray predawn light. After packing up and tying their bedrolls down, they wash up at the sink in the bathhouse and head out. Getting off the interstate, they pass horse farms with rail fences, huge barns, and green rolling pastures.

They round Louisville and cross over the Ohio River, leaving the Bluegrass State for the Hoosier State. Hanging a left onto 135 to old 64, they exit down into Milltown, Indiana, and through a hard-bitten neighborhood of mobile homes, sad houses, and yards full of unmowed weeds. Across an iron bridge, they roll past the VFW and take a curving lane to an A-frame house that sits down along the Blue River. At the sound of rumbling engines, eyes look out from porches and parlor windows, gawking at the strange sight.

Off to the side of the house, a man pushes an old red lawn mower. His sweat-stained ball cap proclaims in big block letters, free mustache rides. He ignores Hunter and his buddies as they turn their bikes off and remove their helmets.

“Who’s that?” Itch asks.

“Beats the shit out of me,” Hunter says.

Nugget says jokingly, “Must be the Lawnmower Man.”

The A-frame is painted a pale baby-shit brown. Off to the right sits a garage of the same hue with a candy-apple red 1970 Plymouth Barracuda parked in front.

Itch says, “That’s a sweet fucking ride.”

“Sid’s gift when he came home from the service,” Hunter tells him.

“How long you known this cat?”

“Since I was fourteen. Dad and I met him camping one year. They became friends. He piqued my interest in joining the service.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Served in Nam with the Army Corps of Engineers. Contact has been hit-and-miss. He lost his wife last year. I didn’t make the funeral.”

Standing on the concrete slab porch, they hear loud and angry words from inside the home. Hunter waits for a pause in the yelling, then knocks.

“Tired. I’m sick and tired of your bullshit. No. Now, wait a goddamned minute. I served my country. Come home. Worked my whole damn life. Then you and that surprise kid . . . What? Really? You gonna pull that card on me? Look, I don’t gotta listen to this horseshit. Yeah, I think I’ll have myself a beer. Hell, I might have two or three just to put out this big, smoldering piss-off you started inside of me. It’s my God-given right.”