“Hey, maybe I oughta give it a try. How long does it take you to knock out one of those things?”

“Six months, maybe, to write one. About twenty-five years to learn how.”

“You’d better just stick to repairing televisions,” Barbara said.

“We coming up on the turnoff?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

“We didn’t get any chance to explore the place last time,” Pete said. “Spent too much time screwing around back at that pile of rocks.”

“Watch it, buster.”

“Anyway, we had to get home for some party you were having, so we just drove right on through Sagebrush.”

God, Larry thought, he’d meant it literally. Otherwise Barbara wouldn’t have reacted that way. They’d actually screwed in that old ruin. Inside those tumbledown walls. No door. No roof. Right out in the open, almost.

For just a moment he was there. On top of Barbara. Her eyes were half shut, her lips peeled back, her naked body writhing under him as he thrust.

He banished the image, ashamed of his minor betrayal and the desire it stirred. No harm in daydreaming, he told himself. He had such fantasies often, and not just about Barbara. But he’d never cheated on Jean. He planned to keep it that way.

“You’re coming up on it,” Barbara said.

Pete slowed nearly to a full stop by the time he made the right-hand turn. The road ahead looked as if it had gone ignored by a generation of repair crews. Only a few faint traces remained of its center line. The gray, sunbaked asphalt was cracked, crumbling, pocked with holes.

The van pitched and bounced, swerved to miss the worst of the potholes. Larry found himself hanging onto the armrest.

“You want to slow down?” Barbara suggested.

“You want to get there, don’t you?”

“In one piece, if that’s feasible.”

A bump rammed the seat against Larry’s rump. His teeth clashed.

“Goddamn it!” Barbara snapped.