The mountains that swelled above them on both sides of the highway were a dark battleship gray beneath an opal moon. As the road wound over their shoulders, they seemed to emanate a sense of strength and endurance, causing James to think about how quickly a person’s life could suddenly end. After mumbling a good-night to the others, James did not turn his truck toward home. Though he was tired, his unsettled mind replayed the discovery of Parker’s body over and over again like a film reel set on a loop. James longed for some friendly but anonymous faces. He wanted the comforting din of background noise like outdated jukebox music or billiard balls being slapped together as they rolled across an expanse of green felt. Turning the truck south, James headed for the Woodrow Wilson Tavern, one of the county’s few drinking establishments. Sammy, the proprietor, was at his usual place behind the oak bar, wiping a pint glass to a high shine with a dishtowel.
