Nugget has a confused expression. “Thought you said his wife passed away.”

“She did.”

“Then who’s he getting stout with?”

Hunter lifts his hand to knock. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He bangs on the door. Shuffle and clomp from inside the house. The door swings open. Eyes light up.

“I’ll be goddamned. Hunter? Holy shit. Who’d you bring with you, the Hell’s fucking Angels? Get in here!” He envelops Hunter in a bear hug. Sid is a short but stout little man with a wild graying do like Einstein’s—nothing on top, sheer rioting anarchy on the sides. He peers through thick square-framed glasses and asks, “So who are your buddies?”

“Itch and Nugget. Nugget and I served in Iraq together.”

Sid’s eyes ignite like two piss holes in the snow, “No shit. What regiment?”

“First Battalion, Hundred and Eighty-Sixth Infantry Regiment.”

Shaking hands all around, Sid tells them, “Pleasure, guys. Make yourselves at home. Let’s hit the back deck. Got some catching up to do.” Taking them through the house, Sid asks, “So, just passing through?”

“Something like that,” Hunter says.

The living room is simply furnished. Leather sofa. Flat-screen television. Card table in the corner. Pictures, in a time frame from snaggletoothed kid to squared-away soldier in dress uniform. Images of war, surrounded by bulldozers, airfields, and jungle giving way to those of his marriage to an attractive blonde line the walls. An off-balance ceiling fan wobbles overhead as they cross into the kitchen, recognizable as such by the sink and fridge and little else. No dishes or even a spoon—only a coffeemaker with a fat red plastic jar of Folgers beside it and a selection of bourbons ranging from Early Times all the way up to Maker’s Mark and Knob Creek. They walk out a sliding glass door to a wooden deck where a cast-iron picnic table sits.

Itch comments, “Badass table.”

“Made it myself.”

“Looks like some steady welds. You’re a craftsman.”

“Appreciate it. Not what I once was—the arthritis gets to me these days.” Looking to Hunter, he says, “Well, either you’re passing through or you’re not. What’s the big secret that brings you to Indiana? You relocated to North Carolina, right?”

“Yeah . . .”

“How about your dad? He still out on the West Coast?”

“He is, but . . .”

“But’s ass. You don’t sound too sure about that.”

“That’s one reason I stopped by. He passed away.”

Sid shakes his head, gestures for everyone to sit down at the table. “Oh, man, I’m sorry to hear that, Hunter. What happened? Was he sick? Seems like the ‘big C’ has gotten contagious over the years, or—”

“No. My uncle called. He lives out there too. Apparently, it was a mysterious house fire. That’s all he’d tell me over the phone. That’s where I’m headed—kinda taking my time, seeing some countryside on the way.”