“Yep,” he agrees. The word's taut as a bowstring. He stubs the cigarette out on the rock and stays where he is, gaze flicking off into the dark. He reaches for the crutch, jabs the end into the ground and uses the resistance to slide down the rock. Shoulder throbbing from the effort. The leather jacket he wads up and tucks behind his head.

Rust stares up at the sky. His breathing slows. “Gotta keep an eye out for Salamanca. He'll be back here, matter of when. And who he drags along,” he says, as if that's a reasonable substitute for good night.