Madison really had to pee. He'd had 4 cups of coffee since he crossed the state line and then a 32 oz Hawaiian Punch Slurpee at a convenience store in Denison. The bouncing of the road ruts, rocks, and tree roots under the Merc wasn't helping matters, but he knew he was close to the camp : Ahead he saw lights in the window of the cabin, shining through some sort of low-lying fog.

The knowledge that he was about to meet a group of sandal-wearing, beret-sporting, bearded Burl Ives's and buxom bra-less patchouli-scented Mama Casses in flannel mumus, all of whom were sure to see through him, despite his extensive knowledge of the Limelighters gleaned from listening to 2 1/3 of their songs, this knowledge made him a bit nervous. These people were throwbacks to the coffee houses and poetry readings of the fifties. They probably had bongo drums and sipped espresso and talked about Kafka and wore "Ban the Bomb" buttons. They probably still smoked pot from large hookahs in the centers of meditation circles...at least he hoped they still did. He suddenly regretted passing Gino's Submarine Station back on the highway. He was not likely to find any pepperoni or sausage among the folkies. No burgers, or pizza, or frozen enchilada dinners. No. These people probably brought organic squash and brown rice they had grown and harvested themselves. They would certainly have a score of rag-tag, filthy, ringworm-infested children running around with shirts and no pants on. They would begin everyday with Little Houses made of Ticky-tacky strummed on a balalaika by some tousel-haired moron with a bobbing adam's-apple, a belly-full of prozac, and a gentle smile who would play gently just outside your door until the sound would reverberate in your head like the driving of Tom Henry's railspike, or Phil Bunyan's ax, or something. He would smile as you headed for the bathroom and whisper "good morning friend!" Every night would end with everyone holding hands and singing Michael Row the Boat Ashore with tears in their eyes. One other thing....there would be no liquor. He silently congratulated himself on laying in a cache of whiskey, then realized he'd better hide it in the woods or the folkies would have it, just to relieve themselves from the monotony.

But he felt nervous and uncertain, and he needed a smoke. A pee and a smoke. The Pall Mall pack was still empty, and he rooted in the ash tray for a significant butt. He found one about three-quarters of an inch long, pushed the lighter in, and held the lighter uncomfortably close to his face as he attempted to light it. Just as the end ignited, he hit a small boulder or something, jammed the cigarette into the lighter element, and the ember burst all over his pants. Frantically, he began to smack the little pieces of burning ash, stepping hard on the brake. The Merc came to a stop in the middle of a small stream that was in flood and crossed the drive. The splash of muddy water hit the windshield as if thrown from a bucket, and that's when the engine quit. He turned the key, and the starter gave a weak sputter. The second twist of the key yielded even less. "Son of a bitch," Madison said, without much conviction. He pushed the lighter in. At least that still worked. He got the butt lit, and as he drew in the smoke, the sound of the stream filled his ears, and he realized again the urgency to pee. He opened the door, clicked off the dome lights, stood on the door bottom, leaned against the open door and began to answer nature's call.

Somewhere, a violin sung a soft melody. Madison sighed with relief, zipped up, then saw a flash 3 or 4 hundred feet away at the forest edge, followed by the sharp report of a small-caliber handgun. "Damn it. This I don't need." Stepping into the stream and soaking his wingtips, he squished off toward the scene of the shot.