Thousand: Four Hundred Fifty-One

that. He closes his eyes. Damn good hash browns. Crispy, melts in the mouth, is that garlic? The innkeeper bustles out of the house and grasps the cowboy’s hand, giving it a brief pump, then holding onto it while he talks, laughing, nodding. Bernie squints. The cowboy is smiling, isn’t he? Perhaps they know each other. He hears a thump thump on the boards and sees Sir’s tail lightly swinging, though the dog hasn’t gotten up. Sir glances up at him, but when Bernie raises an eyebrow the dog turns away and yawns. “Do we get to hell today?” Bernie