"My mother lived to ninety-eight," Fred replied as he took a long drink and put the bottle back in the bag.

"Yeah? Well I can pretty much guarantee you won't. And you've got no health insurance. Neither do I. They say the hospital has to treat everybody, but they don't say when they do. Been over the county hospital mor'n once lying on the waiting room floor with the fever and the chills and the heaves so bad I think I'm gonna die. Two days go by and then some kid in a white coat finally comes out and asks you to stick out your tongue and wants to know where it hurts while you're lying on the floor with your stomach coming out your ass. By then you've pretty much lived through it, but some damn drugs would've been nice too."

"I never go to hospital." Fred said this in Indian. And then he started talking fast in his native tongue.

Quarry interrupted him. "Fred, I don't have Gabriel here, so when you start going full Muskogean on me, I'm lost, man."

Fred repeated it all in English.

"There you go. When in America, speak the English. Just don't try to go to the damn hospital without an insurance card. I don't care what language you're talking, you're screwed."

The truck bumped along. Fred pointed to a building in the distance. It was the little house that Quarry had built.

"You do good job on that. I watch you sometimes while you do it."

"Thank you."

"But who did you build it for?"

"Someone special."

"Who?"

"Me. My vacation home."

They drove on.

Quarry pulled out a bulky envelope from his jacket and passed it across to Fred. When Fred opened it, his hands shook slightly. Stunned, he looked up at Quarry, who was eying him from under bushy eyebrows.

"One thousand dollars in there."

"What is it for?" Fred asked, as he hacked up some phlegm and spit it out the window.

"For coming back home," he said, grinning. "And for something else too."

"What?"

"That's why you needed your ID."

"And why do I need my ID? You never said."

"You're gonna be a witness to something. Something important."

"This is too much money to be a witness," Fred said.

"You don't want the cash?"

"I did not say that," the man replied, the heavy wrinkles on his face deepening as he spoke.

Quarry playfully jabbed him in the arm with his elbow. "Good. 'Cause I ain't no Indian giver."

Thirty minutes later they reached the small town. Fred was still looking down at the envelope packed with twenties. "You didn't steal this, did you?"

"Never stole nothing in my life." He looked at Fred. "Not counting people. Now I stole me some people, you know." A long moment passed and then Quarry laughed and so did Fred.

"Cashed in some old bonds my daddy had," explained Quarry.

He pulled in front of the local bank, a one-story brick building with a glass front door.

"Let's go."

Quarry headed to the door and Fred followed.

"I've never been in a bank," said Fred.

"How come?"

"I've never had any money."

"Me neither. But I still go to the bank."

"Why?"

"Hell, Fred, 'cause that's where all the money is."

Quarry snagged a banker he knew and explained what he wanted. He pulled out the document. "Brought my real American friend here to help witness it."

The stout, bespectacled banker looked at the scruffy Fred and attempted a smile. "I'm sure that's fine, Sam."

"I'm sure it's fine too," said Fred. He patted his jacket where the envelope full of money was, and he and Quarry exchanged a quick grin.

The banker took them into his office. Another witness was called in along with the bank's notary public. Quarry signed his will in front of Fred, this other witness, and the notary. Then Fred and the other witness signed. After that, the notary did her official thing. When it was all completed, the banker made a copy of the will. Afterward, Quarry folded up the original and put it in his jacket.

"Make sure you keep it in a safe place," warned the banker. "Because a copy won't be good enough for probate. How about a safe-deposit box here?"

"Don't you worry about that," said Quarry. "Anybody tries to break into my house gets their head blown off."

"I'm sure," said the banker a little nervously.

"I'm sure too," said Quarry.

Fred and Quarry stopped at a bar for a drink before heading back.

"So now it is okay to drink, Sam?" asked Fred, tipping the mug of beer to his mouth.

Quarry pitched back a few fingers of bourbon. "It's after noon, right? All I'm telling you, Fred, is to have some reasonable standards."

They drove back to Atlee. Quarry dropped Fred off at the Airstream.

As the old man slowly made his way up the cinderblock steps, he turned back to Quarry who sat in the old truck. "Thank you for the money."

"Thank you for witnessing my will."

"Do you expect to die soon?"

Quarry grinned. "If I knew that I'd probably be off in Hawaii or something going for a swim in the ocean and eating me that calamari. Not riding around in a rusted-out truck in nowhere Alabama talking to the likes of you, Fred."

"By the way, my name isn't Fred."

"I know that. 'Cause that's the name I gave you. What is it, then? Your real name? I didn't see your ID that good or how you signed the will."

"Eugene."

"Is that an Indian name?"

"No, but it is what my mother named me."

"How come?"

"Because she was white."

"And she really lived to ninety-eight?"

"No. She was dead at fifty. Too much booze. She drank even more than me."

"Can I still call you Fred?"

"Yes. I like it better than Eugene."

"Tell me the truth, Fred. How much longer you got to live?"

"About a year, if I'm lucky."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I. How did you know?"

"Seen a lot of death in my day. The chest hack you got. And your hands are too cold and your skin under the brown is too pale."

"You're a smart man."

"You know we all got to go one day. But now you can enjoy what time you got left a thousand times better than you would've a few hours ago." He pointed a finger at his friend. "And don't leave nothing for me, Fred. I won't be needing it."

Quarry drove off in a swirl of dust.

When he got back to Atlee the first plump drops of rain from an approaching front were starting to fall. He walked in and went straight to the kitchen because that's where he heard her. Ruth Ann was scrubbing some big cook pots clean when Quarry's boots hit the kitchen floor. She turned and smiled.

"Gabriel was looking for you."

"Told him I was going into town with Fred."

"Whatcha go into town for?" Ruth Ann asked as she worked.

Quarry sat down and took the document out of his jacket and unfolded it. "What I wanted to talk to you about." He held up the paper. "This here is my last will and testament. I got it signed today. Now it's all official."

Ruth Ann put down the pot she was scrubbing and wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Her brow creased. "Your will? You ain't sick, are you?"

"No, at least not that I know. But only a fool waits until they're sick to make a will. Come on over here and take a look at it."

Ruth Ann took a hesitant step forward and then quickly crossed the room and sat down. She took the paper from him, slipped a pair of drugstore glasses from her shirt pocket, and put them on.

"I don't read all that good," she said, a little embarrassed. "Get Gabriel to do it for me mostly."

He stabbed a finger at one part of the paper. "It's mostly lawyer talk, but right there is all you got to pay attention to, Ruth Ann."

She read where he indicated, her lips moving slowly as she read the few words. Then she looked up at him, the paper trembling in her hands.

"Mr. Sam. This ain't right."

"What's not right about it?"