The window unit on the Studebaker did little to quell the desert heat, beyond perhaps creating a crosswind of stale, baked air. Fecke told himself it was still somewhat refreshing as he tugged at the holster where it dug into his shoulder.

One more lie and many miles to go.

A headache crept across his brow from squinting half the day. Half his face felt tight, a lopsided sunburn in the making. Three cups of coffee now sat in his bladder begging for release.

A groan preceded the weary question from the back seat, “How much farther?”

Fecke would have shrugged if he had the energy, “Twenty, maybe twenty-five miles to Victorville.”

The whine of whitewalls on asphalt filled the silence between the two men. Fecke didn’t dare look in the rear view mirror. What lay in the back was no longer the man, his friend he knew.

The day before taunted him with its serenity; the night before dogged his conscience.

“We gonna’ make it, Fecke?”

“Sure, Hoss, sure we are.”

One more lie and many miles to go.