I like to see a place waking up, though Sunday, with stores closed, has a peculiar quiet. Drunks lurch about, though far fewer than I saw in Tombstone, where they were a constant, and nothing stopped for Sunday. Never should have left, I decide. The present torment is worse than what I knew there.
Johnny Royle springs to mind for no reason. Dead and gone a dozen years, he still pursues me, and why not? Give him his due. I robbed him of a lifetime and would take back that shot if I could. For all I know he was an innocent party, and why in hell am I letting him get hold now? I cross the street like I can get away from him.
As I reach the other side, I see the fellow I woke up with. He’s bigger than me, thickset, and bearded. I slip between buildings to watch him pass, wondering how I found appeal in him. “Drunk” is my only answer.