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it aint been three years。
i used them very words。
just wait till i get around there。
in the rain； her mother said。 she looked up at the cab…driver。 i got cancer； she said。 now look at this。 not even a home to go to。
yes mam。
were goin to el paso texas。 you know how many people i know in el paso texas？
no mam。
she paused with her arm on the door and held up her hand and made an o with her thumb and forefinger。 thats how many； she said。
yes mam。
they sat in the coffeeshop surrounded by their bags and parcels and stared out at the rain and at the idling buses。 at the gray day breaking。 she looked at her mother。 did you want some more coffee？ she said。
the old woman didnt answer。
you aint speakin； i reckon。
i dont know what there is to speak about。
well i dont guess i do either。
whatever you all done you done。 i dont know why i ought to have to run from the law。
we aint runnin from the law； mama。
you couldnt call on em to help you though； could you？
call on who？
the law。
no。 we couldnt。
thats what i thought。
the old woman adjusted her teeth with her thumb and stared out the window。 after a while the bus came。 the driver stowed her walker in the luggage bay under the bus and they helped her up the steps and put her in the first seat。 i got cancer； she told the driver。
carla jean put their bags in the bin overhead and sat down。 the old woman didnt look at her。 three years ago； she said。 you didnt have to have no dream about it。 no revelation nor nothin。 i dont give myself no credit。 anybody could of told you the same thing。
well i wasnt askin。
the old woman shook her head。 looking out through the window and down at the table theyd vacated。 i give myself no credit； she said。 id be the last in the world to do that。
chigurh pulled up across the street and shut off the engine。 he turned off the lights and sat watching the darkened house。 the green diode numerals on the radio put the time at 1：17。 he sat there till 1：22 and then he took the flashlight from the glovebox and got out and closed the truck door and crossed the street to the house。
he opened the screen door and punched out the cylinder and walked in and shut the door behind him and stood listening。 there was a light ing from the kitchen and he walked down the hallway with the flashlight in one hand and the shotgun in the other。
when he got to the doorway he stopped and listened again。 the light came from a bare bulb on the back porch。 he went on into the kitchen。
a bare formica and chrome table in the center of the room with a box of cereal standing on it。 the shadow of the kitchen window lying on the linoleum floor。 he crossed the room and opened the refrigerator and looked in。 he put the shotgun in the crook of his arm and took out a can of orange soda and opened it with his forefinger and stood drinking it； listening for anything that might follow the metallic click of the can。 he drank and set the half…empty can on the counter and shut the refrigerator door and walked through the diningroom and into the livingroom and sat in an easy chair in the corner and looked out at the street。
after a while he rose and crossed the room and went up the stairs。 he stood listening at the head of the stairwell。 when he entered the old womans room he could smell the sweet musty odor of sickness and he thought for a moment she might even be lying there in the bed。 he switched on the flashlight and went into the bathroom。 he stood reading the labels of the pharmacy bottles on the vanity。 he looked out the window at the street below； the dull winter light from the streetlamps。 two in the morning。 dry。
cold。 silent。 he went out and down the hallway to the small bedroom at the rear of the house。
he emptied her bureau drawers out onto the bed and sat sorting through her things； holding up from time to time some item and studying it in the bluish light from the yardlamp。 a plastic hairbrush。 a cheap fairground bracelet。 weighing these things in his hand like a medium who might thereby divine some fact concerning the owner。 he sat turning the pages in a photo album。 school friends。 family。 a dog。 a house not this one。 a man who may have been her father。 he put two pictures of her in his shirtpocket。
there was a ceiling fan overhead。 he got up and pulled the chain and lay down on the bed with the shotgun alongside him； watching the wooden blades wheel slowly in the light from the window。 after a while he got up and took the chair from the desk in the corner and tilted it and pushed the top backladder up under the doorknob。 then he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots and stretched out and went to sleep。
in the morning he walked through the house again upstairs and down and then returned to the bathroom at the end of the hall to shower。 he left the curtain pulled back； the water spraying onto the floor。 the hallway door open and the shotgun lying on the vanity a foot away。
he dried the dressing on his leg with a hairdryer and shaved and dressed and went down to the kitchen and ate a bowl of cereal and milk； walking through the house as he ate。 in the livingroom he stopped and looked at the mail lying in the floor beneath the brass slot in the front door。 he stood there； chewing slowly。 then he set bowl and spoon on the coffeetable and crossed the room and bent over and picked up the mail and stood sorting through it。 he sat in a chair by the door and opened the phone bill and cupped the envelope and blew into it。
he glanced down the list of calls。 halfway down was the terrell county sheriffs department。 he folded the bill and put it back in the envelope and put the envelope in his shirt…pocket。 then he looked through the other pieces of mail again。 he rose and went into the kitchen and got the shotgun off the table and came back and stood where hed stood before。 he crossed to a cheap mahogany desk and opened the top drawer。
the drawer was stuffed with mail。 he laid the shotgun down and sat in the chair and pulled the mail out and piled it on the desk and began to go through it。
moss spent the day in a cheap motel on the edge of town sleeping naked in the bed with his new clothes on wire hangers in the closet。 when he woke the shadows were long in the motel courtyard and he struggled up and sat on the edge of the bed。 a pale bloodstain the size of his hand on the sheets。 there was a paper bag on the night table that held things hed bought from a drugstore in town and he picked it up and limped into the bathroom。 he showered and shaved and brushed his teeth for the first time in five days and then sat on the edge of the tub and taped fresh gauze over his wounds。
then he got dressed and called a cab。
he was standing in front of the motel office when the cab pulled up。 he climbed into the rear seat； got his breath； then reached and shut the door。 he regarded the face of the driver in the rearview mirror。 do you want to make some money？ he said。
yeah。 i want to make some money。
moss took five of the hundreds and tore them in two and passed one half across the back of the seat to the driver。 the driver counted the torn bill