Logan’s couch, amused to discover that a blanket had been spread over him while he slept. He looked at his watch. It was a little after three a.m. After making sure all the windows and doors were secure and peeking in on his host to make sure he was still breathing, Guts quietly exited. He paused on the front porch. Finney Avenue was quiet except for a tireless chorus of crickets and the occasional distant moan of a train. Glancing at Mr. Logan’s unkempt lawn, he made a mental note to send someone over to mow it—again. The old man could remember the details of a Supreme Court decision from 1857, but couldn’t remember to take care of his lawn. I should live so long, Guts thought as he got in his car and cranked the engine. But he quickly checked himself. He’d never given much thought to living a long, happy life. The deaths of his parents had taught him that such fantasies were a useless waste of time. He’d seen a lot more deaths since then. Each of them, including Fish’s violent, messy end, had confirmed his initial impressions.
