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We arrived in Durango a day late, our bodies creaky after fourteen hours on a bus.

I slept most of the trip, but Kansas was antsy. He tapped his feet, played drums on his knees, went to the bathroom twice an hour, chatted up the bus driver so much that the guy told him to go back to his seat.

Dan has been standing in the lobby for five minutes when a woman in a bathrobe runs up to him and starts to yell.

“You creep, you creep. How can you work for those people, those terrible, immoral people?” Her face and neck are flushed red with anger.

While she is screaming, Jerry Fuller, the man Dan is waiting for, comes strolling into the lobby. Dan knows it is Jerry from the way he’s looking around, examining the ceiling and fingering the peeling paint on the wall. Were this building a car, he’d be kicking the tires.