Eight Seconds to Fall

• Chapter 1 In the Dust and Danger
• Chapter 2 Stepping into the Dirt
• Chapter 3 The Boy with No Fear
• Chapter 4 Close Calls and Bruised Ribs
• Chapter 5 Chasing the Whistle
• Chapter 6 Between Horns and Hard Luck
• Chapter 7 Unspoken Warnings
• Chapter 8 Arena Lights and Neon Nights
• Chapter 9 The Weight of the Cleats
• Chapter 10 Shadows in the Chute
• Chapter 11 Reckless Hearts
• Chapter 12 Stitched Up and Stubborn
• Chapter 13 The Midnight Haul
• Chapter 14 Catching the Blow
• Chapter 15 What Fear Forgets
• Chapter 16 A Dangerous Rhythm
• Chapter 17 Mud and Bloodlines
• Chapter 18 The Price of the Ride
• Chapter 19 Armor Stripped Away
• Chapter 20 Broken Rhythms
• Chapter 21 The Bull Called Midnight
• Chapter 22 One Step Ahead of Havoc
• Chapter 23 The Final Draw
• Chapter 24 Taking the Hit
• Chapter 25 Past the Buzzer
• Chapter 26 Standing Ground

The arena smelled of wet dirt, diesel exhaust, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of fifteen hundred pounds of angry beef. Wyatt Kelly stood twenty feet out from the bucking chutes with his cleats sunk two inches into the churned earth, his knees bent just enough to take the strain off a lower back that had seen better decades. He pulled up his padded vest by the shoulder straps, settled his plastic chest protector, and took a slow breath through his nose. His joints gave their standard pre-show creak, like floorboards in an abandoned farmhouse.

At thirty-four, Wyatt was a relic in a trade where most men retired or were carted out on a backboard before thirty. The kids coming up out of Oklahoma and Texas called him an elder statesman, which was just polite cowboy talk for a stubborn bastard who didn’t know when to quit. He didn't mind the label. Being old in the bullfighting business meant you had survived long enough to make your mistakes count, and Wyatt had made plenty. His right collarbone had been broken twice, his left knee held together with titanium screws, and the skin beneath his baggy shorts and bright red jersey was a roadmap of faded purple contusions and hook-shaped scars.

Across the dirt, his partner, Toby Ruiz, shook out his hands and spit a stream of tobacco juice against the arena fence. Toby was twenty-six, lightning-fast on his pivots, and still possessed all of his original cartilage.

"Smells like rain outside," Toby shouted over the din of the crowd and the tinny southern rock blaring through the sound system. "Dirt's gonna be grease by the time the short go rolls around."

"Then shorten your steps," Wyatt replied, not shifting his gaze from the iron rails of Chute Number Three. "You cross your feet in mud, Toby, and you’re just buying a ticket to the rafters."

"Yes, sir, granddaddy," Toby said with a grin. "Whatever you say."

The arena announcer, a silver-tongued veteran named Cody West whose voice could cut through a hurricane, was already working the stands into a lather. It was a Saturday night in Abilene, and five thousand people had packed into the Taylor County Coliseum, eager to watch men gamble their spines against horned fury for a belt buckle and a check that barely covered the orthopedic surgery.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Cody’s voice boomed over the speakers, reverberating off the steel rafters. "You’ve seen the saddle broncs, you’ve watched the team roping, but now it’s time for the main event! The baddest athletes on four legs versus the toughest boys on two!"

Wyatt adjusted the bill of his ballcap, pulled it down tight over his graying dark hair, and rested his palms against his thighs. He tuned out the music, the announcer, and the cheering fans. Once the gate swung, none of that noise existed. The only thing that mattered was the rhythm of the animal, the line of sight, and the man who was about to lose his balance. A rodeo clown entertained the crowd with corny jokes and rubber chickens; a bullfighter’s only job was to stand between a fallen rider and the graveyard.

In the third chute, a mottled brindle bull named Bad Company let out a guttural rumble that shook the wooden floorboards. The animal slammed his hips back and forth, splintering the top rail with a sharp crack like a pistol shot. Sitting straddled above the beast, resting his boots on the top pipe with an ease that bordered on suicidal, was a rider Wyatt hadn't seen on this circuit before.

The kid couldn't have been more than twenty-two. He had a shock of unruly sandy hair poking out from under a stained black hat, broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist, and a loose-jointed, almost casual posture that rubbed the chute hands the wrong way. Most men getting ready to nod on Bad Company looked like they were sitting in an electric chair. This boy looked like he was waiting for a bus.

"Who’s on the brindle?" Wyatt asked without turning his head.

"Cash Cole," Toby called back, stepping a few paces closer. "Won the rookie title up in Montana last season. Thinks he's God's gift to the flat plaited rope. Drew him out of the hat this afternoon and told the stock contractor he’d ride him with one spur tied behind his back."

Wyatt grunted. "Big talk. Bad Company hooks right when he spins. If that boy doesn't clear the shoulder, he’s going into the dirt headfirst."

"You want me to take the drop?" Toby asked.

"No," Wyatt said, his eyes narrowing as he watched the young rider settle his resin-coated glove onto the rope. "I’ve got the drop. You cover the whistle."

Inside the chute, Cash Cole was sliding his hand into the handhold. His movements were fluid, devoid of the frantic, nervous twitches common among younger riders. He took his time, pounding his gloved fist down onto the leather, working the braided rope tight against the bull's swollen crest. He didn't wear a protective helmet or a face mask, just a scuffed leather vest over a faded denim pearl-snap shirt. In an era where most young riders strapped on hockey gear to protect their skulls, Cole was riding old-school. It was either brave or stupid, and in Wyatt’s experience, the line between the two was as thin as tissue paper.

The stock contractor leaned over the chute, shouting something down at Cole, but the kid just flashed a grin, teeth white against a sun-browned jaw, and pulled his hat down tight. He set his chin, squared his chest, and gave the nod.

"Outside!" someone yelled, and the gate latch clanged open.

Bad Company erupted into the arena like a freight train jumping the tracks. The bull blew straight out for two heavy leaps, dirt clods kicking twenty feet into the air, before planting his front hooves and snapping into a vicious, whip-fast spin to the right.

It was an ugly, bone-jarring move designed to rip a man's arm out of its socket, but Cash Cole matched it. The kid dropped his outside shoulder, leaned into the rotation, and drove his spurs up into the bull's shoulder with arrogant, rhythmic precision. Every time the bull dropped, Cole was right there with him, floating above the brute force, letting the violence carry him instead of fighting it.

"Look at him go," Toby muttered, mesmerized.

Wyatt didn't speak. He took three measured steps toward the center of the spin, his cleats tracking the churned ground, eyes locked on the bull's massive horns and Cole’s shifting center of gravity. It was a beautiful ride, no question. The kind of ride that scored ninety points and put a boy on the cover of magazines. But Wyatt could see the hitch coming before Cole felt it.

On the fifth rotation, Bad Company caught a pocket of soft sand. The bull stumbled slightly on his front knees, lost his cadence, and violently reversed his spin, hooking his left horn up toward the sky.

Cole wasn't ready for the change of direction. His spurs lost their bite, his upper body whipped back like a snapped bowstring, and the sheer inertia ripped his hand clean out of the rope.

He didn't just fall; he got launched.

Cole went airborne, flipping once in mid-air before hitting the arena floor with a sickening, flat thud that knocked the wind clean out of him. He bounced, his hat flying toward the fence, and came to rest face down, five feet directly in front of the bull’s hooves.

Bad Company didn't miss a beat. Scenting blood and movement, the brindle bull whipped around, lowering his head to drive eighteen inches of hardened horn through the kid’s spine.

"Toby, trail!" Wyatt roared, and hit the gas.

There was no time to think, no time to worry about his aching knee or the cold air burning his lungs. This was the work. Wyatt closed the distance in three explosive strides, crossing right into the bull’s path just as Bad Company dropped his snout to gore.

Wyatt didn't hesitate. He stepped squarely into the bull’s blind spot, planted his right foot, and slapped his open palm hard against the animal’s wet, bristly forehead.

"Hey! Come here, boy! Right here!" Wyatt barked.

The bull flinched at the sudden slap, his attention ripped away from the motionless figure in the dirt. Bad Company surged forward, aiming his left horn straight at Wyatt’s ribs. Wyatt didn't back up; backing up was how you got run over. Instead, he took a hard, aggressive step to the left, pivoting on the ball of his foot, letting the heavy horn whistle past his padded jersey with less than an inch to spare. The draft of wind off the animal smelled of sour breath and rage.

The bull lunged again, but Wyatt was already spinning with him, keeping his body pinned close to the animal's shoulder, denying the beast the leverage it needed to hook him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Toby sprint in from the flank, grab Cash Cole by the collar of his denim shirt, and drag him across the dirt toward the safety of the bucking chutes.

Cole was groggy, kicking his boots out blindly, trying to find his feet while his head was still spinning.

"Stay down, kid!" Toby yelled, hauling him under the bottom pipe of the arena fence just as the crowd let out a collective gasp.

With the rider clear, Wyatt broke the connection. He planted both hands against the bull’s massive hip, shoved off hard to gain three feet of separation, and cut a sharp ninety-degree angle toward the exit gate. Bad Company gave one half-hearted buck, realized his target had vanished, and allowed the mounted pickup men to herd him out the open gate toward the holding pens.

The arena horn blew, marking the end of the ride, followed immediately by the roar of five thousand people rising to their feet.

Wyatt slowed his run to a trot, then to a brisk walk, resting his hands on his hips while he caught his breath. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and the familiar ache in his left knee was flaring up with a dull, throbbing heat. He wiped a streak of gray dirt and sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, spit into the dirt, and let out a long, ragged exhale.

"Now that," the announcer bellowed, "is why Wyatt Kelly is an eight-time Bullfighter of the Year! Let him hear it, folks! He just took the horns so Cash Cole could walk away!"

The applause washed over the arena, but Wyatt ignored it. He didn’t do the job for the cheers, and he sure as hell didn’t care about being called a hero. A hero was just a dead man who had run out of luck.

He turned his attention toward Chute Three, where Toby was helping the kid up off the wooden platform behind the fence. Cole was leaning against the steel rail, shaking his head like a dog coming out of a pond. His face was smeared with dark arena grit, his pearl-snap shirt was torn open down the front, and he was clutching his left ribs with a tight, pale fist.

Yet, as Wyatt walked over, he saw that the kid was smiling. It wasn't a relieved smile, either. It was the wild, cocky grin of a man who had stared into a meat grinder and thought it was funny.

"Hell of a ride, Cash!" a chute hand hollered, slapping the young rider on his uninjured shoulder. "Eighty-eight and a half! Puts you second in the round!"

"Should’ve been a ninety," Cole wheezed, his voice rough from the dust in his throat. He pushed Toby’s hands away, insisting on standing on his own two feet, though his knees trembled visibly inside his leather chaps. "Bull dropped out from under me on that fifth hop. Sneaky bastard."

Wyatt stopped at the base of the chute, looking up at him through the iron rails. "He wasn't sneaky, kid. He does that every time he crosses the hash marks. If you’d watched twenty seconds of tape instead of admiring your own reflection in the trailer mirror, you’d have known that turn was coming."

The chatter behind the chutes went dead quiet. The stock hands and riders glanced between Wyatt and the newcomer, sensing the sudden drop in temperature.

Cash Cole slowly lifted his head, his hazel eyes locking onto Wyatt’s. The kid’s gaze was sharp, defiant, and unnervingly bright. He didn't look humbled by the near-miss; if anything, the adrenaline had made him bolder. He wiped a smear of blood from his split bottom lip with the back of his thumb, smirking down at the veteran.

"You must be Kelly," Cole said, his voice dropping into a drawl. "I saw you move out there. Not bad for an old-timer. A little slow on the pivot, maybe, but you got the job done."

Toby, standing a few feet away, looked like he was about to choke on his tongue. Nobody spoke to Wyatt Kelly like that on the dirt.

Wyatt didn't blink. He held the kid’s gaze until the cocky smirk on Cole's face began to tighten around the edges.

"I was fast enough to keep that horn from coming out the front of your chest," Wyatt said, his voice quiet, flat, and hard as granite. "Next time, stay on your bull. I don't like scraping twenty-year-old arrogance off my boots."

Without waiting for a response, Wyatt turned his back and walked away toward the out-gate, his cleats sinking rhythmically into the dirt as the next rider prepared to load.

The smell of horse sweat, diesel, and damp lime always settled thickest behind the chutes after the bucking stock cleared out. Wyatt Kelly sat on an upturned wooden crate in the warm-up lane, slowly peeling the white athletic tape off his wrists. The adhesive tore at the dark hairs on his forearms, a tiny, familiar sting that helped yank his head back into normal time. Beside him, a half-empty bottle of water gathered condensation on the concrete lip of the drainage trough.

Across the alleyway, young riders were packing their gear bags, unfastening their spurs with sharp metallic clicks, and checking their phones to see where the after-party was rolling. That was the eternal rhythm of the circuit. If you stayed on, you drank to celebrate; if you got bucked off, you drank to forget the dirt in your teeth. Either way, the local dive bars made their month’s rent whenever the rodeo rolled into town.

Toby Ruiz leaned against a stack of hay bales, working a thumb under the edge of his chest protector to unclip the side buckles. He let out a long wheeze as the plastic shell parted from his ribs.

"I swear, every year they make these vests with thicker foam, and every year the bulls hit twice as hard," Toby said, shaking out his jersey. A small shower of red dirt sifted to the floor. "You see the way that kid looked at you? Cash Cole. Man, I thought his eyes were going to burn two holes through your vest."

Wyatt didn't look up from his tape. "Kids talk. That's what they do when their bones haven't been broken enough times to teach them manners."

"He wasn't just talking, Wyatt. He took it personal. You bruised his pride right in front of the chute bosses." Toby smirked, pulling a bruised apple from his duffel and taking a crisp bite. "Course, you did step in front of fifteen hundred pounds of cross-bred beef to save his skin, so maybe he ought to send you a fruit basket instead of lip."

"I don't want his fruit basket," Wyatt said evenly, balling the graying tape into a tight sphere and tossing it into an empty steel drum five feet away. It landed with a dull clang. "I want him to learn how to bail without landing under the animal's front feet. It makes my job harder than it needs to be."

The heavy metal door at the end of the alley clanged open, admitting a gust of chilly West Texas air and the unmistakable sound of booted heels clicking against concrete. Cash Cole walked into the corridor with his gear bag slung casually over his right shoulder. The torn pearl-snap shirt was gone, replaced by a clean gray hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms. His left arm was held stiffly against his ribs, though he was doing a mediocre job of pretending he was completely fine. A fresh white butterfly bandage covered the cut over his split lip.

He stopped ten feet away, eyeing the two bullfighters. Toby went still, apple halfway to his mouth, clearly anticipating round two.

Cash shifted the weight of his bag, his hazel eyes locking directly onto Wyatt. The arrogance from the dirt was still there, buzzing beneath his skin like an electric fence, but the immediate shock of the wreck had worn off, leaving behind something cooler, more deliberate.

"You got a light, Kelly?" Cash asked, his drawl low and deceptively smooth.

Wyatt stood up slowly. His left knee gave its customary pop, loud enough to echo in the narrow space between the cinderblock walls. He stood nearly two inches taller than the younger man, his shoulders broader through the frame, settled by years of physical labor rather than gym weights.

"Smoking ruins your wind," Wyatt said. "And you need every cubic inch of lung you’ve got if you’re gonna keep riding like an idiot."

Cash didn't look flustered. Instead, a slow, wolfish grin spread across his face, pulling slightly at the bandage on his lip. "I don't smoke. Just wanted to see if you had any fire in you when there wasn't a bull in the middle."

"You found out in the dirt," Toby cut in, clearly irritated by the kid’s swagger. "Wyatt pulled you out of the shredder. A little 'thank you' wouldn't kill you, Cole."

Cash glanced at Toby for half a second, dismissing him with the briefest flick of his eyes, before returning his attention to Wyatt. "I would've rolled. I had my hip turned. I was getting clear before he made the turn."

"You were staring at the arena lights with your mouth open, kid," Wyatt said, keeping his tone perfectly flat, devoid of anger or insult. He reached down, grabbed his gym bag, and zipped it shut with a sharp, definitive hiss. "Bad Company was about two-tenths of a second from dropping his brisket on your chest. You wouldn't have rolled. You'd have been folded up like a cheap lawn chair."

Cash's jaw worked, the muscle ticking beneath the tan skin. "I scored eighty-eight and a half. That check is gonna cash just fine on Monday."

"Money don't do you much good if you're eating your steak through a straw in a rehabilitation ward in Lubbock," Wyatt replied. He slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped past Cash, not giving the younger man an extra inch of clearance. The heavy canvas of their bags brushed together, rough and abrasive.

As Wyatt reached the door, Cash called after him without turning around. "We're both drawn for San Angelo on Thursday, Kelly. Don't be surprised if I keep you running all night."

Wyatt didn't stop, didn't turn, and didn't answer. He shoved the steel bar with his forearm and pushed out into the gravel parking lot, leaving Toby to trail along behind him.

The night air was sharp and clean after the stifling atmosphere of the arena. Rain was still holding off, but the clouds hung low and bruised over the west, blotting out the stars and reflecting the amber glow of the highway lights. The parking lot was a maze of heavy-duty pickup trucks, long aluminum horse trailers, and campers running their generators with a steady, rhythmic thrum.

Toby caught up, jogging two steps to match Wyatt’s long, steady stride. "Man, that kid is a piece of work. Who raised him, wolves?"

"He's young," Wyatt said, tossing his gear into the open bed of his beat-up white Ford F-250. The tailgate slammed down with a hollow bang that made a nearby horse snort softly inside an unhitched trailer. "He thinks he's made of rubber and luck. Most of them do until the first time they hear their own bones crack."

"He's got talent, though," Toby admitted, leaning against the truck’s rear quarter-panel while Wyatt pulled an old denim jacket from behind the bench seat. "I mean, Bad Company hasn't been ridden past four seconds since July. Cash made that turn look like he was sitting on a porch swing until the dirt gave out."

"Talent's cheap in this business," Wyatt muttered. He slipped into the jacket, feeling the warmth settle over his sore shoulders. "Every kid who ever won a high school buckle thinks he's the next Lane Frost. Staying alive for ten years on the road takes something else entirely. Brains, usually. Which he seems to be short on."

"He’s gonna get hurt in San Angelo," Toby said quietly. "They’re hauling in the Andrews stock. That string doesn't fool around. Half of those bulls are straight out of the brush in South Texas, meaner than strip-mine dogs."

Wyatt fished his truck keys out of his pocket, the brass ring cold against his knuckles. He thought about the look in Cash Cole’s eyes when they’d locked horns behind the chutes. It wasn't just arrogance; it was a desperate, almost manic hunger. Wyatt had seen that look a hundred times before on boys who had nothing waiting for them back home, boys who rode like they were trying to outrun whatever shadow was chasing them down the highway.

"Let the stock worry about the stock," Wyatt said, opening the driver's side door. "Our job is to step in between. That's all it ever is."

"You heading over to the diner?" Toby asked. "Cody said the coffee’s actually hot tonight."

"Not tonight. My knee feels like somebody packed it with crushed glass. I’m gonna find an ice machine, swallow some ibuprofen, and get three hours of sleep before we have to haul toward the Concho Valley."

"Suit yourself, old man," Toby laughed, giving the side of the truck a friendly slap. "See you at the gate on Thursday. Try not to rust before then."

Wyatt climbed into the cab, the springs of the worn vinyl seat groaning under his weight. He turned the key, and the old diesel engine chugged to life with a familiar, rattling growl that vibrated straight through the steering wheel into his forearms. He let it idle for a minute, watching the red taillights of haulers navigating the muddy ruts toward the main road.

Out near the warm-up pens, under the sickly yellow glare of a sodium floodlight, he caught sight of Cash Cole again.

The kid was standing alone by the pipe railing of an empty pen, his back to the road. He had his left arm tucked against his stomach, leaning heavily against the top rail, his forehead pressed against the cool steel. From this distance, without the arena crowd and the blaring music to hold him up, he didn't look like an invincible eighty-eight-point rider. He looked bruised, exhausted, and remarkably small against the vast, empty flatness of the West Texas dark.

Wyatt watched him for five seconds through the streaked windshield. He could see the slight hitch in the kid's shoulders, the sharp inhale of breath that accompanied a cracked rib whenever the body finally stopped producing adrenaline and realized what had happened to it. Cash Cole had survived the drop, but the dirt always demanded its tax.

Wyatt shifted the truck into reverse, the transmission clunking heavily into gear, and backed out of the stall without looking back.

The drive out of Abilene was long and straight, a black ribbon of asphalt cutting through scrub mesquite and limestone caliche. Wyatt rolled the window down two inches, letting the cold wind scour the smell of the coliseum out of his hair. His thoughts, despite his best efforts to turn them toward sleep and the highway ahead, kept circling back to the arena dirt.

A bullfighter couldn't afford to care about a rider's personality. Out in the center of the ring, a man didn't have a name, a record, or an attitude; he was just an object in motion, a fragile sack of water and bone that needed to be shielded from four sharp hooves and a set of polished horn tips. You stepped in because that was what you were paid to do. You took the blow because your vest had plastic inserts and your reflexes were honed to turn a direct impalement into a glancing slap.

Yet there was something about Cash Cole’s complete disregard for self-preservation that sat heavy in Wyatt’s gut. Most young riders showed a flash of hesitation after a wreck like that. They’d rub their necks, blink away the cobwebs, and walk with a careful, cautious tread for a day or two. Cash had gotten up looking for a fight. He had stepped toward the danger instead of backing away from it, not out of bravery, but out of a reckless, stubborn refusal to admit that the earth had hit him back.

"Stupid," Wyatt muttered aloud to the empty cab, his voice lost in the engine's drone. "Just plain stupid."

Two hours later, he pulled the truck into the gravel lot of a roadside motel on the outskirts of San Angelo. The neon sign buzzed with an irritable, low hum, half the letters burned out so that it simply read M-T-L. A single pickup was parked near the office, its bumper covered in faded team roping stickers.

Wyatt grabbed his small overnight bag from the passenger seat, locked the cab, and limped into the small front office to grab a room key from a night clerk who didn't even bother looking up from a portable television.

The room smelled of stale disinfectant and industrial carpet, but the air conditioner hummed with an aggressive, freezing efficiency that suited Wyatt just fine. He dropped his bag on the luggage rack, kicked off his boots, and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress.

He reached into his bag, pulled out an elastic knee brace and a bottle of generic pain relievers, and shook three round pills into his palm. He swallowed them dry, then peeled off his socks to inspect the damage from the night's work.

His left knee was swollen, puffy around the patella where the screws held the reconstructed ligament in place. He’d twisted it on the second step of that pivot around Bad Company, just a slight tweak when his cleats caught the edge of a compacted rut near the hash marks. It wasn't torn—he knew what a tear felt like, knew the sickening pop and the instant flood of nausea that followed—but it was pissed off. It would be stiff by morning, and stiffer still by Thursday.

He walked into the tiny bathroom, filled the ice bucket from the machine out on the walkway, dumped the cubes into a plastic trash bag, and wrapped the makeshift cold pack around his joint with an elastic bandage.

Propping his leg up on two flat pillows, Wyatt leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. The room was dark, save for the green numbers of the digital alarm clock and the sliver of amber light leaking around the edge of the heavy curtain.

His phone buzzed once on the nightstand.

He picked it up, squinting against the harsh screen. It was a text from the stock contractor, Hank Miller, the man who owned Bad Company and ran the rough stock for half the PRCA rodeos in the southern circuit.

Good save on that kid tonight, Wyatt. He’s crazy, but he sells tickets. Don’t let him get killed in Angelo. I got him drawn on Red Rock in the long go.

Wyatt stared at the screen for a long moment, the blue light illuminating the hard lines around his eyes and the gray bristles along his jawline. Red Rock was a notoriously nasty red-whiteface bull with a dropped left horn and a habit of looking for riders the second they left the rigging. If Cash Cole tried to ride Red Rock with that same loose, arrogant posture, he wouldn't just lose his seat; he’d get pinned against the back of the chute before the whistle even blew.

Wyatt set the phone face down on the table without replying.

He didn't need stock contractors telling him who to watch out for. His cleats would be in the dirt on Thursday night, just like they were every week, positioned exactly twenty feet out from the gate, ready to move when the latch cracked. Whether the kid wanted his help or not didn't matter. The dirt didn't care about gratitude, and neither did Wyatt.

He pulled the rough cotton sheet up to his chest, let the cold ache of the ice bag numb the fire in his knee, and waited for sleep to come before the road called him back to work.