Beached in the middle of the desert, like a tremendous pink whale, was a convertible 1955 Cadillac. Steam billowed from under the hood. The thick white vapour was fading when Eddie pulled the stolen F250 to a stop on the roadside.

Eddie slapped a beat up Stetson on his head and jumped out of the truck, the desert heat like a blast furnace. George squeezed his bulk out the passenger door. His shirt was clinging to his back and ample stomach. Joining Eddie at the back of the Cadillac, he asked, “What do you think?”

Afterwards, Cat and Owl sat on a limb of the large cedar tree and shared a cigarette.

The air was still and smelled of small animals, damp grass and, of course, burning tobacco. Cat watched as Owl took a long puff and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.

"Warm night," Owl said.

"Yeah," Cat replied. He hated small talk. He'd never been very good at it. Tonight, he had more important things he wanted to say. "Owl?"