29
Collins drives us back towards town. On our way, we pass by the ranch. The road outside the entrance to his home is swamped either side by a convoy of vehicles. Big, heavy duty machines. Trucks. Pickups and bright-yellow earth movers.
Work crews, too, lighting barbecues and throwing American footballs by the side of the road.
It only leaves a narrow gap for other traffic to get through.
Collins slows the pickup. We roll along the road doing twenty. "What the crap—" he says, staring wide-eyed as we pass by the convoy. "Those sons of bitches."
"They're just messing with you," I say. "Trying to make you snap. Accept the inevitable and be on your way."
"Why the hell would they do that?"
"I guess it costs a lot to hire the contractors and set up this kind of operation," I say. "They w
