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Chris Gallagher sat out on his folding chair by the side of the road, a burger in hand, cooked on the grill by one of the contractors. It was charred to an inch of its life and slapped in a cheap white bun with a dollop of ketchup. Hardly gourmet, but a man had to eat. And besides, it had already been a long wait out there by the side of the highway.
Gallagher was in his fifties. Balding, out of shape and past caring. He wore a pastel-pink shirt with large, dark rings around the armpits. He wore his silver tie slung low and his sleeves rolled up over ham-like forearms.
Gallagher checked his watch again, bored out of his mind. He wasn't one for throwing a football and he'd worked his way through his entire newspaper. Now all he could do was sit, wait and eat.
As he opened his mouth f
