Rodeo and Lalita
For hours, Rodeo drinks and dances and laughs with his family. He gets into a playful fist-fight with Sarge that leaves a shiner the size of Texas on his cheek, he drinks his weight in Old Crow and 'shine and eats about twice as many Jello cockroaches as anybody else, he makes out with a pair of bitches who seem charmed by his high spirits and sings until his voice is raw. Still, there's something he keeps coming back to. His mind is damp and pliable. He sinks down another gulp of Bishop's 'shine, sitting down on the edge of one of the picnic tables just outside the fire's glow. It's still noisy here, but Rodeo's feeling numb to it after the din nearer to the festivities. He takes his phone from his pocket, flicking through it. He doesn't text. His vision is swimming and his thumbs feel heavy (he calls a patch named Dom twice before he manages to hit the contact labeled "Doc" instead.) Finally he picks the right name, and he lifts the phone to his ear, listening to it ring and wondering how generous she's feeling at 3 AM.