ROOKIES

Music. Sweet music.

DOC

I lie with my head beside the radio. Music. Sweet music.

And then it's even sweeter.

It's the sound of screeching tires and my husband, well, he's either shooting his gun from outside the window of his car or his car is backfiring- It's hard to tell which is which these days. I hear him curse, "Crazy hot rodder, blue blazers," And it adds a certain melody to the music in creation.

I sigh and, turning on the lights, lift myself up out of bed. Grabbing my jacket and walking outside I see Sheriff's car parked in the middle of the ripped up road. Oh god, I think, oh my god, whoever did this will pay.

The door of Sheriff's car opens and he steps out. He stands in the rain, gun in hand, smelling of smoke and exhaust. He sees me there and, slamming the door, comes towards me, "What happened?" I ask.

He frowns, "That crazy hot rodder came in here wreckin' this town. I threw him into the impound," Sheriff fingers the gun in his hand. There is a galaxy of bruises on his skin.

I kiss him on the cheek and say, "The road hazard won't know what's coming for him."

"He hasn't met the honourable Doc Hudson or, for that, matter this town. We'll see to him in the morning."

I smile and it's enough to have just this, "We'll make him pay." Sheriff turns but I grab his hand and pull him closer to me, "Come to bed."

Sheriff smiles and passes his gun into my firm hand, "Hold my gun," Together, hand in hand, we walk back inside.