This was his favourite part of day, when night critters were making for home and the day shift was stirring. Up ahead in the half-light, a heaving black mass in the road marked the spot where the crows were feasting on fresh road kill. Unlike most guys he knew, Morten would swerve or hoot to avoid squishing any living creature - except for rattlers that is. He loved animals and took pleasure in seeing them running wild out here in the desert; jackrabbits, raccoon, wood rats, javelina, mule deer, sometimes even a coyote - although numerous, the most elusive of all.

Despite owning a rifle, he never used it to hunt. Last time he’d taken a shot at a wild thing was on his tenth birthday. Taken out by his Pa to get his first deer, he could still recall the desperate feeling of revulsion and guilt that swamped him when he saw the creature in his sights fall in a heap after his bullet struck. Pa had never forgiven him for failing this bloody right of passage, the reminder only removed when Frank Smeijers was killed in a car crash three years later, six months after walking out on his family for the last time. Morten wasted no tears. He was glad when the old man left, relieved when he died. He stayed away from the funeral and never spoke of him.

Morton tucked two dollar bills under the Tabasco bottle and slid out of the booth. He removed his cap and combed his fingers through his greased hair before setting the hat back on his head, pulling the peak low. On the way to the register he passed a table occupied by a couple. A man aged around seventy by his reckoning and his companion. A woman with skin so tight her mouth was stretched into a permanent smile. Morton was reminded of a photograph he’d seen once in an old magazine of the mummified remains of a Japanese soldier from World War II, putting on a grin of death for the cameras, his helmet still in place, strapped up under his chin.

To mask his reason for staring a second too long, Morton nodded ‘hi’ as he passed. The woman’s arms sagged underneath, hanging like a turkey crop, blue veins criss-crossing under the pale freckled skin of her chest and shoulders. Morton had a rush of nausea and looked away. Old people gave him the creeps.

The cashier, a beaming Latino guy in neat white shirt, blue tie, sporting a pencil moustache like a 40’s gigolo in a black and white movie, took the check and rang up the total.

‘Everything OK for you sir?’

‘Yeah, jus’ fine’, said Morton, the toothpick between his teeth waggling up and down as he spoke. He took the change without checking it and moved towards the door.

‘Take care sir. You have a nice day now’.

Morton raised a hand in reply, using the other to pull on the door. He took in a lungful of outside air - still chilled - and pulled a cigarette from the pack in the top pocket of his shirt. Lighting it, he snapped the burning match in two, woodsman style, and flicked it away in a smoking arc.

Getting to the truck, he tugged at the large padlock on the toolbox in back. Satisfied, he unlocked the cab and climbed in. The Park was one thing, but outside he took no chances. He’d known guys get cleaned out while their vehicles stood in the lot for as long as it took to down breakfast or dinner. Charlie Beekman lost all his tools while he took a crap in the Seven Eleven outside of Ajo one time. Gone for five minutes max. With no insurance, it took all the money Charlie had and what he was forced to borrow to replace his gear. Swore he knew who’d done it, but could prove nothing. Threatened to shoot the son-of-a-bitch, but Charlie was full of shit. Didn’t even own a gun.

Today, Morton was working at Walmart on Highway 90 down in Sierra Vista. He had two days to redecorate the Photo Center, which would be closed for business for the duration. Two days was the time head office had allowed. Two days was as long as Morton would take.

He’d been working as a company painter for the last twenty months, travelling around four southwestern states. The job was OK. He liked the freedom. Moving on from place to place, two days here, three days there. No boss nosing over his shoulder. Yeah. He’d done worse. Couldn’t ever get free of the smell of paint though. It was under his nails, ground in to the cracks on his hands, on his eyelids, in his hair. Two shades mostly - 075 90 10 and 110 90 10 - Walmart wall colours. Morton was a two-tone, one company man. Except, that is, for his sidelines.