Joey and I spent most of today moving furniture and pulling carpet out of Unit Four. If there was ever a moment in my life when I was more exhausted than I am right now, I truly don’t remember it.

Hank Freed, who runs the garage across the road, has a lead on a truck for me. Some friend of his who lives out near Montoya has a ’66 GMC pickup he’s trying to unload. I don’t know much about trucks, but this one is, according to Hank, “a good-lookin’ ol’ bitch that’ll help you do anything you’ve got any business doing.” He’s going to take me over to look at it tomorrow afternoon.

I keep thinking about that weird guy from the truck stop. Stuff like that usually doesn’t rattle me, but I can’t help wondering what I’d do if somebody like that wandered into my lobby. I mean, it probably won’t ever happen — after all, Miss Shirley lived here for years and never had any trouble — but I think I’d feel safer if I had a big dog to protect me.

Maybe I’ll check the bulletin board at Bill’s tomorrow morning and see if anybody’s got any pups for sale. The Tumbleweed could use a big, goofy mutt to keep things interesting, and if I end up buying this truck, I will need a dog to ride in the back. Based on my observations around town, I am pretty sure it is a violation of Coldwater city ordinances to drive a pickup truck without canine supervision.

— Sierra


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