Bobbi didn't want to wait – or couldn't – to get back before having the drink she had promised herself. Just outside the Augusta city limits was a roadhouse that went by the charming name of The Big Lost Weekend Bar and Grille (Whopper Spareribs Our Specialty, The Nashville Kitty-Cats This Fri and Sad).

Anderson pulled in between an old station wagon and a John Deere tractor with a dirty harrow on the back with its blades kicked up. Further down was a big old Buick with a horse-trailer behind. Anderson had kept away from that on purpose.

'Stay,' Anderson said, and Peter, now curled up on the seat, gave her a look as if to say, Why would I want to go anywhere with you? So you can choke me some more with that stupid leash?

The Big Lost Weekend was dark and nearly deserted on a Wednesday afternoon, its dance-floor a cavern which glimmered faintly. The place reeked of sour beer. The bartender cum counterman strolled down and said, 'Howdy, purty lady. The chili's on special. Also -'

'I'd like Cutty Sark,' Anderson said. 'Double. Water back.'

'You always drink like a man?'

Usually from a glass,' Anderson said, a quip which made no sense at all, but she felt very tired … and harrowed to the bone. She went into the ladies' to change her pad and did slip one of the minis from her purse into the crotch of her panties as a precaution … but precaution was all it was, and that was a relief. It seemed that the cardinal had flown off for another month.