Bob had gone eleven days without a drink, and the man in the trucker cap was trying to make it zero. He sat on his bedroll behind the gas station, back against the cinder block, counting the days on his knuckles the way a boxer counts teeth. Eleven. One more than last time. Three hundred and fifty-four to go before he could ask for his old name back, the one he'd left in a ditch with his wedding ring. The local squatted in front of him and set a fresh pint on the gravel. Cheap stuff, the kind that smelled like paint. It was the third bottle tonight. His buddies laughed from the pickup, elbows out the window. "On the house, Pops," the local said. "Don't be rude." Bob looked at the bottle. His mouth already knew the shape of it. His hand already knew the weight. Eleven days shrunk down to the width of a bottle cap. "Take it away," Bob said. "Take it or wear it." The local unscrewed the cap and held the pint over Bob's blanket. Liquor beaded on the neck. "Your call." Behind the counter window, Dennis Kowalski watched. The clerk was tall and slouched, glasses sliding down his long nose, chewing a straw like the whole planet bored him. Bob had bought coffee from him every morning for a week. Dennis had never said more than the price. The local tilted the bottle. A drop hit the wool near Bob's knee. Bob didn't move. If he grabbed it, he drank it. He knew himself. The side door banged open. Dennis walked out with a mop bucket, not looking at anyone. He set it down between Bob and the local, sloshing grey water over the local's boots. "Pump six is on your tab now," Dennis said to the local, flat. "Forty-one dollars. Pay inside or I call it in." "I didn't pump nothing." "Camera says you did." Dennis finally looked up. "Take your bottle with you." The local stared. He was working out whether a gas clerk was worth a fight. He decided no. He snatched the pint, spat near the bedroll, and walked off toward the truck. The pickup coughed and rolled onto the road. Dennis picked up the mop. He didn't look at Bob. "There's no camera on that pump," he said. "Don't sleep here tomorrow. Manager comes Fridays." "Thank you," Bob said. Dennis shrugged one shoulder and went back inside. Bob pressed his palms against his knees until they stopped shaking. Eleven days. Still eleven. He folded the blanket and rolled the bedroll tight. Friday was two nights away. The truck would come back before then; men like that always came back, and next time there would be no mop bucket. He shouldered his pack and started walking, looking for a darker place to keep his count.