He got back in the car and dragged it along on the rim as far as it would go, with the metal scraping the road like a knife against a tooth. One mile later, the place appeared.

It was low, long, wooden, with a porch full of empty crates and two old chairs. Out front hung two flags. One American. The other one of those flags people hang when they want to say something without saying it directly. In the parking lot there were three pickups, a motorcycle without a muffler, and a rusted sign that read COLD BEER, HOT CATFISH, NO FOOLS.

Leo killed the engine and stayed inside for a few seconds.

His stomach had tightened.