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The Roadbeast’s decaying foam head liner creates a constant rain of fifty-year-old dust, so we park by an open field that had once been a row of houses and sit on the curb, in the shade of a broad-limbed maple that had graced the front yard of a now-bulldozed home. The sun’s dancing with the treetops and an evening breeze promises cooler air tonight. It’s quiet enough that I can hear kids playing on the next street over. Smoke from someone’s unseen backyard grill sends out the delectable aroma of cooking pork, and the smell seems to carry barely audible Motown rhythms with it.
Over a bucket of steaming hot beer-breaded cod and a mountain of fresh-cut crinkle fries from the you-buy-we-fry, Will tells Deke his Switchyard Saga. Will has no idea how to debrief; he jumps forwards and backw
