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smiled, and his mustache did its sexy little dance, but this time I didn't feel much of anything for it.
    In fact, the nasty little fur ball just made me nauseous.
    *     *     *     *
    "Dynamite stone guard. What'd that hit you for?"
    "Two-ten. I got a great deal on it."
    "Had any trouble with your door gaskets? I've always heard the door gaskets on Sovereigns need constant replacement."
    "Not mine. I had a guy I know back home in St. Cloud treat my gaskets—windows, doors, everything—and I've only had to replace 'em once."
    "St. Cloud? You're from St. Cloud?"
    "That's right."
    "Then you've gotta know Artie Dobbins. He's WBCCI out of St. Cloud."
    "Sure, I know Artie. I met him at the International back in '91. We lived less than twenty miles from each other, and never even knew it until then. He's a funny guy, Artie, isn't he?"
    Big Joe and Albert Gunderson began to laugh, just thinking about how funny a guy Artie Dobbins was.
    We had just made Albert's acquaintance ten minutes ago, as we were walking through the trailer park we had spent Monday night in, feeling more at home here than at the hotel. It's a difficult thing to explain to laymen, but once a person becomes a full-timer—someone who, like Joe and myself, lives year-round on the road—he can't take the sensation of solid ground beneath his feet for very long. For just as a sailor eventually learns to move with the rhythm of the sea, full-timers have learned to walk in accordance with the quirky bounce of a trailer's suspension, a soft, often noisy motion the earth simply cannot duplicate.
    Our Lucille had been gone now for less than eight hours, but already withdrawal from this sensation was making a nervous wreck out of Joe. I knew when he suggested the diversion to the trailer park that he would find another Airstream within fifteen minutes of our arrival, and that he would get himself invited inside of it only seconds after that.
    Enter Albert Gunderson of St. Cloud, Minnesota, and his gorgeous little twenty-one-foot Sovereign. Joe had pounced on him as he was making a careful inspection of his butane tanks, and immediately struck up a conversation. Once Joe had established our credentials as members in good standing of the Wally Byam Caravan Club International, Region 12, Albert took us to his bosom like a shepherd embracing his sheep. For invoking the name of Wally Byam—the late, great founder of the Airstream empire—is a sure-fire way to make any Airstream owner a friend of yours for life.
    "So you and Artie made the International in '91, huh?" Joe asked Albert, obviously envious.
    The small man with the skittish toupee nodded proudly. "Sure did. Didn't you?"
    "Wish I could say I did, but no, I'm afraid I didn't. The wife and I didn't come aboard until just last year. But we were up in Dayton."
    "Dayton was a blast!"
    "Tell me about it!"
    "You've gotta see this beer mug I bought in Dayton. It'll crack you up!"
    Albert started for the door to his trailer and gestured for us all to follow.
    " I'm not goin' in there," Bad Dog said to me, under his breath so his father wouldn't hear. He and I had been standing together off to the side, listening to Joe and his new best pal chatter without really hearing a single word.
    "Come on," Big Joe called to us, waiting to see what we were going to do.
    "You go on ahead," I told him. "We're just going to wait out here and talk."
    Joe wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, but he was sharp enough to see that I didn't care to elaborate, so he simply entered the trailer after Albert and let us be.
    "I think you need to get Pops to a doctor, Moms," Bad Dog said moments later. "He's takin' this 'King of the Road' business way too seriously."
    "Theodore—"
    "But he was somethin' else back at the ranger's office, wasn't he? The way he stood up for me like that, I mean?"
    "Your father loves you, Theodore. Very much."
    "Hey, and I love him. It's just that, I don't know, sometimes—"
    "Listen. We're not out