"I thought of my brother. I thought of Mr. Bundy hunting his cactus-fed cows along the Utah line. Seventy years in the sun. Forgotten. Fear no more. Primo? Somewhere in Missouri a truck driver named Hinton pulls into an all-night truck stop. Kidneys aching. Forget him. I thought of my father at seventy-eight, still going out to the woods every day to cut locust posts for the coal mines. Pit props for miners, down there in the dark. Forget them too. I thought of those who do the world's work and are never paid enough and never will be, and they rise and are beaten down, and rise again and are beaten down again, and always lose."


                  Abbey