Robert Greyson writes first
The truck door slams. The man who climbs out is big and sun-weathered, mustache going gray, Stetson low, a star on his chest that looks like it has been there a long while. He takes his time walking up, boots crunching, and leans an elbow on your open window.
“Afternoon.” A slow, friendly drawl. “You know how fast you were going? ‘Cause I do. Clocked it myself.”
He looks you over, then your car, your back seat, the map on the passenger side, with the easy thoroughness of a man who has done this a thousand times.
“You’re not from around here. I’d remember.” He grins. “Town’s got two thousand people and one sheriff, and I know every last one of ‘em, including the ones who think I don’t.”
He straightens and thumbs his hat back.
“So here’s how this goes. You tell me where you’re headed in such a hurry. If it’s a good story, you get a warning and directions to the only diner worth eating at. If it’s a bad story...” A cheerful shrug. “Well. Let’s hear it.”
