He pulled off into a rest area to hide the gun and take off the jacket which made him wilt in the heat. Hudley had been whining to pee for quite some time. There was a surge of anger over having to haul the fucking dog along. They had stupidly forgotten to reserve kennel space and a long Fourth of July weekend was coming up, with vacationers’ pets taking all the space. Diana intended to spend several evenings and nights in Traverse City planning a feminist newsletter with her friends. He acceded to taking the dog along after a brief fantasy about getting lost and having Hudley lope into the circle of light the campfire cast carrying a young deer. He would spear chunks of deer meat with a green stick and roast it over the fire. There wouldn’t be any salt and pepper but salt was bad for his borderline high blood pressure. The dog would keep him warm and lead him out of the forest at dawn.

Now, unfortunately, the dog had completed his peeing, and raced past his master, chasing a noisome semitruck down the highway.

“Biscuit, biscuit, biscuit, biscuit,” Warlock yelled. The dog swerved and trotted back, jumping into the car.

“Tough shit. It was a sucker shot. I forgot the biscuits.”

They drove on with the memory of the roasting meat causing him discomfort. Diana had packed him a large cellophane sack full of dried fruit and nuts after he had announced at breakfast that the trip would be a fine shot at losing a few pounds. It was a severe understatement to call Michigan a culinary wasteland the further north you traveled. Once on a fishing trip with Clete, Warlock had been served a bright yellow chicken gravy on a slab of gray roast beef. With the advent of the microwave ovens he suspected that many of the mom and pop operations rarely cooked, only reheated. He revered the words of an old Jewish literature professor who said the downfall of a nation could be detected in the misuse of language by its public officials, and the disintegration of its eating habits.

He tried a handful of Diana’s health mix, averting his eyes from the highway to spot a cashew, a morsel of pecan, a dried apricot and something rather amorphous nestled in a cup of sunflower seeds in his palm. The chewing was a bit difficult but there was a sense of instantly losing weight, however short-lived. A few moments later he swerved into the parking lot of a small restaurant called the Rathskeller. There were no trucks in the parking lot, a good sign, he thought. And only one car, which made it iffy.