He looked out the window. Skyline Boulevard ran along the spine of hills that divided the ocean side of the penninsula from the bay, and when he first began to patrol this territory, Lester had been taken by the absolute contrasts in vegetation on either side. The land to the west, from the hills to the beaches of the Pacific, was locked in fog and rain and so was thick with forests of live oak, digger pine, madrone, and Douglas fir. And south of Half Moon Bay the farmland was planted right to the shore, wide-open artichoke fields that were such a sustained green, Lester found it almost too much to take in while driving. Lawns came in thick and coarse, but green. But in towns to the east, from San Bruno to Palo Alto, the grass looked parched and yellowed. Even the watered grounds of estates in Woodside didn’t have quite the same chlorophyll-rich look as those to the west. Lester’s own lawn in Millbrae was too dry and coarse to sit on without a chair. And it was yellow at the roots. Instead of tall evergreens, the bayside towns were filled with dry shrub of manzanita, piñon, and toyon, plant life that did well in eroded soil.

Soon they were on the freeway and the colonel was driving at a normal speed. An eighteen-wheeler began to pass on the left and Lester could see only the spinning chrome of its wheels through the window. He lowered the pistol between his knees and placed it on the floor at his feet. On their left was San Andreas lake, the start of the fish and game refuge, the water catching the bright gray of the sky. Lester closed his eyes to it a moment but then opened them just as quickly. He still had that hum inside him and it was not unfamiliar; his limbs felt light, as if vapor moved through them instead of blood, and everything he saw had a new clarity to it: the small dots of lint in the gray fabric of the Buick’s headrests; the colonel’s profile whenever he would glance to the left or right, the way Lester could distinguish easily between each eyelash; the boy’s hair, as black as a Mexican’s, his pink scalp barely visible between thick strands, just the hint of smooth brown pigment. It was adrenaline but more; it was adrenaline that had stopped coming in amateurish gushes and instead shifted into a slow feed, the whole body on a sort of molecular alert. Lester had known this feeling from the births of both his children; he’d known it with varying degrees in his work; and now it seemed to come with the territory of leaving one’s wife, with stepping so far over the line to do it Lester felt sure he was about to come up with a pan full of gold or else get swept down the river altogether. And you couldn’t really call it a bad feeling. It occurred to him now it was probably how felons wanted to feel all the time.

The sun had burned through the cloud bank and was warm on his skin through the glass. He was thirsty and wanted a bottle of cold spring water, but he couldn’t send the colonel or boy into a store to get some, and he couldn’t chance all three of them going in either. In the lane in front of them was a municipal van full of Chicano kids, ten or eleven years old. Most seemed to be moving about in their seats laughing and shouting at each other. But sitting sideways at the rear window was a teenage boy wearing a white helmet, his mouth open, his chin wet with saliva, and he kept rocking back and forth, looking directly at the Buick, at all three of them, it seemed. The colonel slowly changed lanes to pass, and the boy began to rock faster in his seat, his eyes following the Buick as it began to pull out of his sight, his mouth nothing but a dark wet hole in his face.

FOR A LONG TIME AFTER LESTER LEFT WITH THE COLONEL AND HIS son, I just stood in the bedroom and listened to Mrs. Behrani quietly cleaning up out in the kitchen. I didn’t like being left alone with her. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do and I wished I hadn’t volunteered to stay. Lester had told me to think of someplace sunny we could go to, but all I could think of was my family, my brother Frank and my mother, their faces when they found out I not only sold Dad’s house without telling them, but that all I got was an auction price for it before I fled town to spend it. And then they’d get the whole story: my drinking, the gun, the pills, Lester and the family he took hostage. My brother would roll his eyes at me one last time, then write my name permanently on the expensive side of his internal cost/benefit sheet. My mother would just curse me for good. I felt queasy, like an important organ inside me wasn’t attached all the way. My front shorts pockets were heavy with Lester’s bullets.

Yesterday I was convinced that by this time today he’d be back with his wife and kids, back to his life in Eureka Fields. But instead he ended up committing a string of crimes to sit and watch over me in my drugged sleep while he didn’t sleep at all. When he made the colonel park my car out of sight in the backyard, I came into the bedroom and watched from the window as he leaned forward and pushed his unloaded gun into the colonel’s neck. Lester got out first, stuffing the gun into his pants and covering it with his shirt. And when the colonel followed, the morning sun in his face, it felt good to see him afraid, see him bullied by someone.

Your shit is my shit. But I never wanted this problem solved bad enough to scare a woman as sweet as Mrs. Behrani. And what was I supposed to do? Go out there and watch her like a prison guard? But then how could I do anything but help Lester get us out of this trouble, which was really more mine than his?

It was quiet out in the kitchen and I pictured her running down the hill into town to find a cop, tell him everything. Maybe they’d catch Lester on the road, think he was armed when I knew he wasn’t. I let out a long weak breath, and stepped fast into the hallway.

She was still at the kitchen sink. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly, and she was just standing there, looking out the window, though there wasn’t much to see but the wooden staircase up to the new roof deck that was hers now. I used to like looking out that window while I rinsed a plate or coffee cup, see my small side yard and the drop of the hill into town.

Mrs. Behrani slowly turned her head and looked at me over her shoulder. It seemed to take her a second or two. Her hair was still flattened a little on one side, and I pictured her sleeping in the bathroom, in the tub or on the floor. I guess I expected her to look ready to fight me somehow, but instead her lined face seemed pained, her eyes taking me in like she wanted to understand me before it was too late. It was almost my mother’s look.

“Please, your friend—” Her voice was weak and she looked down and pressed her hand to the side of her head, then took a deep breath and looked back at me. “Will he to hurt my son?”

“No, he doesn’t want any more trouble, Mrs. Behrani. He’s just trying to finish all this, I guess.” I thought about reaching into my pocket for the bullets.

She stood still, looking at me, her hand pressed to the side of her head. I was about to tell her I was selling them the house, but her eyes were almost black, like she was imagining something that really scared her, and I knew what it was.

“He has a son of his own, you know.”

She nodded once and took a breath. Then she closed her eyes and pressed until her fingertips whitened.

“Are you all right?’

“Migraine. Please, I must—” She moved by me and I watched her walk down the dim hallway as slow and careful as an old lady, one hand in front of her, the other pressed to the left side of her head. She left the bathroom door half open and I could see her feet and lower legs as she knelt on the floor at the toilet. I felt so strange, like it was almost fate that I walk over and hold her forehead as she retched her small breakfast, then sniffled and let out a long moan.