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once-dark brown paint had oxidized, taking on the milky patina of an old Hershey’s bar. The back bumper was askew, the left rear fender was crumpled, and a long indentation on the passenger side rendered the door close to inoperable. I managed to open it by means of a wrenching maneuver that made the metal shriek in protest. Once seated, I hauled, trying to get it shut again. Dolan circled the car, shoved the door shut, and secured the lock by bumping it with his hip.
    I said, “Thanks.” Already, I was worried about his prowess at the wheel.
    He leaned in the open window and held his hand out to Stacey. “Give me your gun and I’ll lock ’em in the trunk.”
    Stacey winced audibly as he torqued to one side, slipping his gun from his holster and passing it to Dolan. Dolan went around to the rear and tucked the guns in the trunk before he got in on his side.
    The car’s upholstery was a dingy beige fabric that made it difficult to slide across the seat. I remained where I was as though glued in place. I turned so I could look at Stacey, who was sitting in the backseat with a bed pillow wedged behind him. His red knit watch cap was pulled down almost to his brows. “Threw my back out,” he said by way of explanation. “I was moving boxes last week. I guess I should have done like Mother taught me and lifted with my knees.”
    Dolan’s hiking boots were muddy, and waffle-shaped droppings littered the floor mat on his side. He adjusted the rearview mirror to talk to Stacey’s reflection. “You should have left those for me. I told you I’d take care of ’em.”
    “Quit acting like a mother hen. I’m not helpless. It’s a muscle pull, that’s all; my sciatica acting up. Even healthy people get hurt, you know. It’s no big deal.”
    In the harsh light of day, I could see that, despite the transfusion, his skin had gray undertones, and the smudges beneath his pale brows made his eyes appear to recede. He was dressed for the outdoors, wearing brown cords, hiking boots, a red-plaid wool shirt, and a fisherman’s vest.
    “You want to sit up here?”
    “I’m better off where I am. I’m never quite sure when I’m going to need to lie down.”
    “Well, just let me know if you want to switch places.”
    I tugged at my seat belt, which was hung up somewhere. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get the mechanism to release a sufficient length of belt so I could clip it into place. Meanwhile, Dolan put the car in gear. The engine coughed and died twice, but finally sputtered back to life, and we were under way. The interior smelled of nicotine and dog. I didn’t picture Dolan as the doggy type, but I didn’t want to ask. The floorboards were strewn with gas receipts, discarded cigarette packs, and assorted cellophane bags that had once contained potato chips, cheese-and-cracker sandwiches, and other heart-healthy snacks.
    We gassed up at a service station adjacent to the freeway and then he eased the car out into the traffic, heading north on the 101. As soon as we were settled at a steady speed, Dolan punched in the car lighter and reached for the pack of Camels he had resting on the dash.
    Stacey said, “Hey! Have mercy. You’ve got a cancer patient back here.”
    Dolan again angled the rearview mirror so he could see Stacey’s face. “That doesn’t seem to stop you from smoking that pipe of yours.”
    “The pipe’s purely recreational. At the rate you smoke, you’ll be dead before me.”
    Dolan said, “Nuts,” but left the pack where it was.
    Stacey tapped me on the shoulder. “See that? The guy looks after me. You’d never guess that about him.”
    Dolan’s smile barely registered, but it softened his face.
    After the town of Colgate, the railroad tracks and the highway ran parallel to the ocean. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains loomed dark and gray, dense with low-growing vegetation. There were scarcely any trees, and the contours of the foothills were a rolling green. Much of