It had started right after he wrapped up his talk with Amé and the others in his office—after they told him what had happened between Fox Uno and Amé in the desert, and the stranger Marco had met at Earlys who’d been asking about her. It only got worse after he shook hands with Bethel Turner and took his chair to the right of the microphone, and the debate had gotten under way. A table had been set up in front of the chairs, right on the Big Bend Central logo on the center of the gym’s floor, and the moderators were there: Clancy Monroe from The Murfee Daily; Dave Wilcher, who owned the Monument Ranch; and Marion Dunham, assistant principal at Big Bend Central. They’d been taking turns asking questions, and he and Bethel had been taking turns walking over and standing at the microphone, giving their answers. It was a constant process of getting up and down, followed by a few awkward steps, that Chris imagined had been designed only to draw more attention to the limp in his leg. To torture him. Bethel had, in fact, dispensed with that bit of theater altogether. Instead of sitting in his seat, he had hitched one leg up on it, which had a way of making him look taller. Although Bethel wasn’t necessarily a short man to begin with—and Chris was over six feet—it still made Chris feel like the former Ranger was towering over him. It was a bit of theater in its own way, and it did a good job of showing off the custom boots Bethel had bought at Heritage Boot Company in Austin—a variation of their Badland in Black—which even Chris had to admit looked damn sharp.

Awkward. Sweating and uncomfortable, that’s how Chris felt, and that was a good word for it. The whole debate felt that way, as if the town itself didn’t know what to do or think. There hadn’t been a “real” election, a real choice, in Big Bend County for decades, and it showed.

It wasn’t that it was going that bad. It just wasn’t going all that good. His opening statement had been shaky enough—again, awkward, like his labored steps to the microphone—and it amazed him that for someone who found it easy enough to write a thousand words, he could have so much trouble spitting out a few hundred.

The problem was, Chris couldn’t concentrate. Not on his prepared statement, or the questions that had followed, and not on the circled faces he could barely see on the risers around the gym—most of Murfee, many of whom had watched him out on the fields or in this very gym, all those years past. Mel had been forced to step out when Jack had woken up crying, and despite all the people he knew, he was now alone in her absence.