They emerged from the tall grass where spent skeet shells lay shattered and mottled snakes slurred softly by and woodsmoke slunk and shushed; they emerged, up the hill, the river behind them on their jeans in their socks; emerged onto the ranch where we came in winter to knead rolls and pile mesquite and watch mist slough on the river, the one now seeping from three pairs of shoes as the men straightened up and blinked and Dad came onto the porch looking for somewhere to put down his coffee, the one dry men in dry rooms had traced to scar the land and say this was this and that was that and these were illegal; they emerged from the tall grass with sticker burrs on their socks and blinked. One asked how far it was to Houston. Three hours drive. Through those gates and hang a right till you reach the highway and watch out for the cattle grates—you know what, hop in the flatbed. I’ll drop you off.