I awoke to the sound of somebody rattlin’ around on my porch. I must’ve fallen asleep in my chair. My .22 was still laying across my lap, but the girl’s boot knife was gone. More rattlin’ at the door, and a couple boot steps.

“That you?” I called toward the front door, slowly curling my fingers around the rifle. It was only then that I realized I didn’t know their names, the girl’s or the kid’s. There was a name that I wanted to call the girl, but decided that my mind was still half-asleep like my feet and legs.

The door suddenly slammed open so hard it almost came off its hinges and two men came stompin’ in. One was hard lookin’, broad and muscular. The other was wiry and longhaired. Where were the girl and the kid. Were they still in the house? Had they gone looking for water? Had they gone?

The big one lunged at me and grabbed the barrel of my rifle. I shoved it at him so hard he fell backwards into his friend. The longhaired one yelled, “Dex! Watch out!” and raised his hands in defense. There was a flash of stainless steel that made me squint. I jumped out of the light and — stopped in my tracks. Froze up. I hadn’t seen it in more than ten years, but I knew it. That watch was mine. That Bulova with the blue face on the long-haired guys’ left wrist. I gave that to my daughter.