He packs his bags in the early morning hours, when is a soft light and a stillness. He folds his clothes neatly and adds essential articles for his trip. He includes a double barreled shotgun that he used for hunting and puts the .45 caliber automatic that had been his sidearm years ago into the waistband of his trousers. He finds interesting that in the midst of the turmoil of his mind, he can do things quickly and efficiently, as if one part of himself continues mechanically despite his brokenness.
He arranges the bags in the back of the van with cool precision and turns the ignition key, leaving the old house behind. He watches the house recede in the rearview mirror as he goes down the curving lane to the main road. He feels like he has turned into a machine, programmed to perform its mission. He is almost detached from his body. Only the thought that he will get her back makes him move forward. He presses his foot down on the gas pedal to make the van go faster, as if time were of the essence.
He proceeds down the road, waiting impatiently for the first exit that will lead him to city where he will find Rick. The road seems empty since it is still so early in the morning. As he drives, an object suddenly comes into view. It is sitting in the middle of the road. He jams on the brakes and brings the van to a screeching halt.
When he steps out, he sees an uncollared dog, a stray mutt looking up at him with sad, inquiring eyes. The dog pants and lets its tongue drip with saliva. It makes a high-pitched noise and then barks. Jim tells the dog to shut up and get away. The dog lowers its head but holds its ground with firm paws. It barks again and then stops, raising its head and looking at him.
--"Get outta here," Jim says, yelling at the dog.
The dog cocks its head and whines.
--"Come on, go. You heard me."
The dog slowly lopes off to the side but then turns back to look at Jim once more as Jim climbs back into the van.
He drives relentlessly for hours, while the sun rises up and then descends into the afternoon. Feeling hunger pangs, he stops at a roadside fast-food restaurant. The parking lot is filled with giant SUVs plastered with stickers that say "Road Warrior" or "Mean Machine." Overweight women with tow-headed children are flanked by gaunt men who look out sullenly under the visors of their ball caps. After waiting his turn, he buys a hamburger that has been sitting under a warming lamp, a big bag of French fries, and a giant Coke with ice. Later, on the road, he feels sick and pulls over to vomit up the meat, fries, and soda on a thin patch of grass. He continues driving until at last he sees a succession of gaudy billboards advertising the prospect of instant wealth in the games at the casinos. Beyond, in the distance, lies a row of tall stark buildings that seem like phantoms against a pale sky.
The casino has room after darkened room of slot machines and gaming tables. At row upon row of slot machines, old men and women in caps given out by the casino sit and press buttons causing the machines to spin and click. Though voices are indistinct, the sound of coins crashing into cups as the machines relinquish their cache is loud and clear. Knots of edgy men and women sit or stand by roulette wheels, throw dice, or study cards at the green blackjack tables.
He sees a banner that proclaims the National Poker Championship. A woman with stiff bouffant hair sits at a cloth-draped table in front of the entrance to a large room that is cordoned off with a velvet rope. On her table is a clipboard with a list of names.
--"I'm looking for Rick Reynolds," he says.
--"You and everybody else," a barrelchested man standing nearby responds. He smiles but his eyes are hard. "Get in line. The bastard owes me five bills already."
The man pauses and lights a cigar. He keeps the cigar in his mouth and lets it bob up and down while he puffs.
--"He owes you money too?," he asks out of the corner of his mouth.
--"He owes me."
The man with the cigar puffs and makes the lighted end burn red.
--"He's a little shit," he says. "He pisses all his money into drugs."
The woman at the table tells Jim that her list does not include the name Rick Reynolds. Jim pauses, hurriedly waiting for a sign. A thin man with a pockmarked face walks over to him.
--"I hear some things about Rick," he says. "You need to find him?"
The man's darting dark eyes look with eager anticipation.
--"Where is he?"
--"Friend, nothing comes free in this place except maybe using the bathroom. Gimme a break, you know?"
Jim takes out his wallet and removes its contents. He puts bills upon a soft velvet tabletop until the man covers them with a hand, indicating his acceptance. Whispering in an ear, he gives Jim a location where Rick goes to "get his fix."
