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rain came down and I pressed on through the night. Something about the rain made me feel safe, that I was in Texas with Texas plates, even safer.
    Mason ran downstairs to the parking lot when I called at two A.M. It was the same old longhaired Mason. "Thank God you made it," he said and hugged me. When I handed him the Christmas present, his eyes lit up. He said, "Is this really here?"
    We ran up the stairs to his apartment. Emma was passed out on the couch. Mason unwrapped the present at his kitchen counter: the buds were really there. He shook his head as he stared at all that weed. He said, "We have to do this again."
    What I learned in Austin was that people in this business could be flaky. Mason didn't have the money that night; he hadn't even taken it out of the bank. When I asked him why not, he said Emma hadn't let him. "We didn't want it lying around the house, you know? Plus, I've got to make some sales first."
    When I said, "What about Kate's and my money?" he said, "I promise you're going to get it." When I said, "What about the risks I took?" he gave me a sorrowful look and said, "I know, I know, and I'm sorry."
    I spent the day in Austin with nothing to do while Mason drove around town selling weed. I ate fish tacos at Trudy's, walked around in Zilker Park, watched
Cops
on mute at the Nomad Bar. Wasn't it weird to watch other people get arrested? A relief in a way? Mason called me every other hour to check in; just then he was way up in Round Rock, waiting for some guy to finish playing Frisbee golf.
    "Frisbee golf?" I said.
    Mason said, "I know. I know."
    Toward evening, Mason hadn't met the guy yet; he was out drinking at the time. Dollar-beer night at Cain & Abel's—how was he supposed to miss out on that? the guy had said.
    What could I do but shrug it off? It wasn't like I could get rid of the weed on my own.
    I drove to where Kate and I used to live, off 183, went past the apartment complex where we'd conceived our baby. They'd changed the code on the security gate, so I parked at the curb and smoked a cigarette. There were stars in the sky, the lights of the city. A plane rose from the airport nearby. What a strange place the complex seemed now. Had we ever really lived there?
    Back at the apartment, I watched Emma feed Bayleigh mac and cheese. Emma shook her head at me and said, "What was it like out there, James? Weren't you terrified?"
    I told her, "It felt good to be in control of something."
    Mason was exhausted when he got home. He microwaved a plate of hot dogs, ate them standing up in the kitchen. Then he smoked a joint, washed his face, and gave me the money. It was a roll as big as my fist, all rumpled tens and twenties. Mason said, "Count it if you want, but it's all there. I rounded it up a few hundred bucks to cover your motels and gas."
    I counted it out on the kitchen table: $4,300. Added to what I'd made in Sacramento, I'd more than doubled our money. There was one ounce left to take home to Kate. I'd never made money as easily as that.
    When we went out onto the porch and lit cigarettes, Mason told me, "That Frisbee golf guy's in law school. What's he got to worry about? He's so fucking inconsiderate, sometimes I want to kill him.
    "I've been doing this my whole life," Mason said, "and I've never had an opportunity like this. This kind of weed? At this kind of price? With everything that's going on out there? This could be real for us, James. This could be what we've been praying for."
    Â 
    Houston traffic was a snarled mess, the worst three hours of the trip. Louisiana was a five-hour breeze, Mississippi and Alabama one-hour jaunts. When I went through the tunnel at Mobile, I knew I'd reached the East. The forested Florida panhandle never seemed to end, then I turned south into the peninsula. All I had left was that one little ounce, stuffed under my seat with the bankroll. After driving the pound across the great western span of the country, it didn't even feel like I was breaking