Warlock’s eyes refocused on the map but now his wiener probed up through the red terry cloth robe: Diana was the ocean and his dick was Florida. He considered self-abuse, but suspected it might precipitate another wave of illness. Better to save it for his returning beloved, an essentially false Chinese notion of sexuality he had read but not believed. She was safe in the arms of her family, waiting to return to him. He suddenly remembered, then discarded a stoned fantasy she had confessed to wherein she had made love to a group of men and Warlock had emerged champion. He much preferred the notion that he could retain his crown without entering any competitions. He took a number ten Valium, fed Hudley a pound of partially thawed hamburger, locked the doors, left most of the lights on, and went to bed, a fresh pillowcase on his still vaguely odiferous, favorite pillow—a soft heirloom that swept him into the longest sleep of his life.

He began the day in the middle of the afternoon with a hearty cup of hot water. The weather was bad with snow and blustery winds; the wait for Diana became a vigil of loneliness and dark imaginings. Short of Siberia it was hard to find an area with worse weather than northern Michigan, where he had recently announced rather pompously he would “retire” with the air of a cinema Indian saying “Here I stand.” The phone was on the blink from the weather and the TV loaded with late afternoon drivel; his stomach was too raw for a drink and the dog whined at the door but wouldn’t go outside. Assuming Diana’s safety, the Florida jaunt was a wonderful opportunity for action. He might have to beef up his hot weather wardrobe. Hudley made a strange humpback circle, a movement prefactory to pooping. The scoundrel. He grabbed the dog, opened the door and flung him off the porch steps, just grazing Diana who, head bent to the wind and snow, was coming toward him.

“Would you hit a woman with a dog?” She laughed.

“No. I guess I already did.” The wind whipped his robe open. He embraced her and she stepped on a bare foot submerged in a pile of snow. It didn’t matter, she was home. Hudley came back on the porch and made a not altogether playful pass at his robe.

In the kitchen she unpacked a sack containing a dozen Tupperware containers, while he rushed on in a litany of complaints about Rabun, his illness, the dog, Florida, his worries about her safety.

“But it was a beautiful day until the last fifteen miles, darling.”