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just crawled out of a cement mixer.”
    “That’s pretty much what I feel like, too.”
    “If you can’t make it on your own, I’ll be happy to lend you a hand.”
    “Naw, that’s all right, buddy, I can do it. Just watch. Ain’t nothing I can’t do when I put my mind to it.”
    Pozzi opened the door and began to extricate himself from the seat, grunting as he tried to move, clearly flabbergasted by the sharpness of the pain. Nashe came around to steady him, but the kid waved him off, shuffling toward the men’s room with slow, cautious steps, as if willing himself not to fall down. In the meantime, Nashe filled the gas tank and checked the oil, and when his passenger still had not returned, he went into the garage and bought a couple of cups of coffee from the vending machine. A good five minutes elapsed, and Nashe began to wonder if the kid hadn’t blacked out in the bathroom. He finished his coffee, stepped outside onto the tarmac, and was about to go knock on the door when he caught sight of him. Pozzi was moving in the direction of the car, looking somewhat more presentable after his session at the sink. At least the blood had been washed from his face, and with his hair slicked back and the torn jacket discarded, Nashe realized that he would probably mend on his own, that there would be no need to take him to a doctor.
    He handed the second cup of coffee to the kid and said, “My name is Jim. Jim Nashe. Just in case you were wondering.”
    Pozzi took a sip of the now tepid drink and winced with displeasure. Then he offered his right hand to Nashe. “I’m Jack Pozzi,” he said. “My friends call me Jackpot.”
    “I guess you hit the jackpot, all right. But maybe not the one you were counting on.”
    “You’ve got your best of times, and you’ve got your worst of times. Last night was one of the worst.”
    “At least you’re still breathing.”
    “Yeah. Maybe I got lucky, after all. Now I get a chance to see how many more dumb things can happen to me.”
    Pozzi smiled at the remark, and Nashe smiled back, encouraged to know that the kid had a sense of humor. “If you want my advice,” Nashe said, “I’d get rid of that shirt, too. I think its best days are behind it.”
    Pozzi looked down at the dirty, blood-stained material and fingered it wistfully, almost with affection. “I would if I had another one. But I figured this was better than showing off my beautiful body to the world. Common decency, you know what I mean? People are supposed to wear clothes.”
    Without saying a word, Nashe walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and started looking through one of his bags. A moment later, he extracted a Boston Red Sox T-shirt and tossed it to Pozzi, who caught it with his free hand. “You can wear this,” Nashe said. “It’s way too big for you, but at least it’s clean.”
    Pozzi put his coffee cup on the roof of the car and examined the shirt at arm’s length. “The Boston Red Sox,” he said. “What are you, a champion of lost causes or something?”
    “That’s right. I can’t get interested in things unless they’re hopeless. Now shut up and put it on. I don’t want you smearing blood all over my goddamn car.”
    Pozzi unbuttoned the torn Hawaiian shirt and let it drop to his feet. His naked torso was white, skinny, and pathetic, as if his body hadn’t been out in the sun for years. Then he pulled the T-shirt over his head and opened his hands, palms up, presenting himself for inspection. “How’s that?” he asked. “Any better?”
    “Much better,” Nashe said. “You’re beginning to resemble something human now.”
    The shirt was so large on Pozzi that he almost drowned in it. The cloth dangled halfway down his legs, the short sleeves hung over his elbows, and for a moment or two it looked as if he hadbeen turned into a scrawny twelve-year-old boy. For reasons that were not quite clear to him, Nashe felt moved by that.
    They headed south on the Taconic State