"He sounded local," Patrick said. "He saved the scene. That guy was flipped out, gone! Sounded like he was from North Carolina or some place down there. He was gone."
It was a relief to be on the road.
"I need a beer," he said when they reached town.
"O.K., Patrick, see you," Sue said, stopping in front of the Depresso.
"O.K." He paused. "You are really beautiful." She made a wry smile that said, "I already know that."
"Night, Patrick."
The next day, during coffee break, he told Wilson what had happened.
"Chicks," Wilson said.
"I never knew I could kill somebody," Patrick said. "I mean—I'm not the violent type. But it was all inside me, like it was pre-wired or something. I never looked at that rock, but I knew it was there."
Wilson sighed. "Knife comes in handy sometimes," he said. Patrick took a folding Opinel out of his pocket. "Too small," Wilson said. His hand brushed the black handle of the hunting knife he wore on his belt. "Bad shit," he said. He stood up. "Gotta put the paint on the wall, Patrick."
That night, Sue did not show up at the Depresso. A week later, she came into the bar with Jim, laughing and having a good time. She waved at Patrick like an old friend, but she didn't say anything to him. He felt less isolated, seeing her. He hadn't touched her, but he knew her smell and what she looked like underneath those clothes.