The woman stands in the parking lot of the motel, which stands beside the old highway, doing little more than gathering midwestern dust as it blows across the worn, desolate landscape getting rare traffic. The woman lives in the quiet of the moment, hearing the wind. The old road runs endlessly left and right across the flat country. Beyond the highway is a blank field populated only by stubs of the crop that grew there until recently. Chopped stalks of corn, forgotten debris and carcasses of husks tumbling through the ghosts of those cornrows. The woman has her arms folded, squinting against the pinkish setting of the sun, staring out into the empty field. All is silence, even the lonely car that glides past her vision. When her hair gets in her eyes, she brushes it away along with the tears staining her cheeks. 

She stares up into the open pink sky, eyes drying in the breeze, looking to a God she’s not sure she believes in anymore. 

“I don’t get it,” she says. “I just don’t get it.” 

She turns, walks back across the parking lot, and slips into the motel room. She locks the door. 

She goes to the bed. She hates going to that bed, even after two days of this. She believes this will be his death bed. 

The man in the bed stirs, sitting up. “Where’d you go?”

2 

“No place.” 

“That ain’t a place.” 

“I ‘us just there.” 

The man chuckles, a fine spray of blood coating over the dried blood that’s already crusting there on his mustache. He settles. 

“Quit ticklin’ me, Carol Jean. You’ll be the death of me.” 

She frowns. “That ain’t funny.” 

The man grunts and shifts in bed, doing all the more worse for his wound. He grimaces, then looks over at his wife. 

“Quit lookin’ at me that way,” he says. 

“What way?” 

“Like I’m sick in the head.” 

“I’ve always looked at you that way.” 

“Well, don’t do it today. I don’t like it.” 

“I don’t either.” 

“Why’s that? It ain’t like nothin’s wrong.” 

“You’re dyin’, Gary Francis.” 

“I ain’t dyin’.” 

“Yes you are too. I can see that you are.” 

“Well, you must not be seein’ straight then. I’ll be just fine.” 

“You’re dyin’.” 

“Ain’t neither.” 

“Are too.”

“Would you quitcher worryin’? I said I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Gary Francis.” 

“You don’t neither, so I guess we’re squared away for the time bein’.” 

Carolyn sits down in the big chair in the corner of the room beside the man’s bed. She folds her hands between her legs, as if she were cold. She wants to take his hand, but doesn’t. She wants to save him, but knows she can’t. It was all a mistake. Just one big mistake. “This is serious,” she says. 

“Ain’t that serious.” 

“Yes it is, Gary. Won’t you just say it, at least?” 

The man grimaces again, harder, gnawing down on his teeth. “Ain’t nothin’ to say.” “You’re burnin’ up. Shiverin’.” 

“I just need another knock ‘a whiskey. Where’d you put it?” 

“What you need is a hospital. You’re gettin’ infected.” 

“Where’d you put it?” 

“It’s gone, you drank it, you ain’t gettin’ any.” 

“I ain’t drunk it all. I know you got it stowed away.” 

“You won’t find it.” 

“Why do you do this to me?” 

“‘Cause you need a medic. It’s time, it’s been two days.” 

“My watch ain’t broke.” 

“Stubborn old goat. You’ll die without a hospital, you know it and so do I.” 

“I know no such thing. We cain’t go to no hospital anyhow. We’ll get throwed in jail.” 

“Better than bein’ killed, bleedin’ out in this bed.”

“I ain’t bein’ killed. I been shot before.” 

“Not like this.” 

“This time ain’t any different. I just needa heal.” 

Carolyn says nothing, only turns in her chair and looks out the window through the slits in the curtain. She feels her hands shake. This spells bad news, and she doesn’t like it. None of it. “What’d you see out there?” the man asks, giving up on moving around and lying flat instead. 

“What?” 

“Outside. Are they out there?” 

“No, ain’t no one out there.” 

The man nods. “Good. We’ll be alright, we just need a few days.” 

She shakes her head. “This ain’t right.” 

“No, it ain’t. But it will be soon. I promise.” 

She nods, knowing he’s got nothing at all to promise about. 

Carolyn sleeps on the chair. Gary stays on the bed, dozing in light sleep filled with terrors and pain. Carolyn sleeps through it. It’s almost dawn when she’s jerked awake by a heavy thudding sound, followed by a crash from right in front of her. She stands up and peers into the dark, fully awake from the sound of her husband cursing from somewhere up ahead, and she runs to where the door is and flips the lightswitch. 

The man is on the floor at the foot of his bed, splayed out on the carpet, bleeding all over, squirming around there. She gasps and jumps down to him, checking him. He tries to bat her off him, but his strength is failing.

“What on earth happened?” she asks. 

“I was lookin’ for that dumbass whiskey,” he says. 

Her face crumples. “Gary Francis, you stupid old bastard!” 

“I know, just help me back to bed.” 

She grabs underneath the arm on the good side of his body and lifts. They stumble, and she throws him down on the bed. He yelps, but straightens himself and lies down, groaning. “What were you thinkin’?” she shouts. “You tore up that bandage and you’re bleedin’ all to hell. We ain’t got another one of them.” 

“Quit hollerin’, you’ll wake the neighbors.” 

“There ain’t no neighbors to wake. Tell me what you were thinkin’.” 

“I tole you what I was thinkin’, I was thinkin’ a’ that whiskey.” 

“That ain’t no thought of any kind. You’re gonna die sooner yet if you get up outta that bed one more time.” 

“I’ll curl up and die right this minute if I go much longer without a shot.” “You don’t need a shot. You need a new bandage. Where d’you expect me to get another one of them at this time of night?” 

“The gettin’ place.” 

“You’re a rotten old man, Gary Francis.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“You ain’t sorry.” 

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“Well, you did. You upset me greatly.” 

She stands up and goes to the door.

“Where you goin’?” 

“Get some supplies for you. I’ll be back. Will you die while I’m out?” 

“No, I ain’t gon’ die. You take your time. I ain’t goin’ no place.” 

“Don’t go lookin’ for the whiskey again, ' cause it ain’t there. Those over-the-counters are right there beside you.” 

“I know, I said I ain’t goin’ no place,” he says 

She leaves. In the little outside hall where the ice and vending machines are, she begins crying to herself. She buys some snacks and grabs a bag and puts some ice in it. Then she goes to the trunk of the stolen car and finds an old shirt there, along with the three-quarters empty bottle of whiskey. She takes these things back to the room and locks the door again. The morning is showing its face in the sky. 

“Anyone see you?” the man asks once she’s inside. 

“No, I wasn’t seen. Here,” she says, tossing him the old shirt. 

“What’s this?” 

“To cover your wound with. Take your shirt off.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The man takes his shirt off and the woman nearly faints. It’s worse than she could have thought previously. The wound is green and yellow around the outside with infection, and radiating heat like a warm skillet. Fluid leaks from it, the stench foul. She produces the whiskey bottle from behind her back. 

“Ah,” the man says. “I knew you had that whiskey somewheres.” 

“Shut up,” she says, holding the bottle. 

“Oh, just shut up you dirty fool. Won’t you just shut your mouth?”

“What? How come you’re talkin’ to me like that?” 

“Oh, damn it all. This whiskey’s goin’ on that wound. It’s too infected.” 

“I should drink some.” 

“No you shouldn’t. Hold still.” 

He holds still, and she dribbles the alcohol on the hot, colored mass that now only vaguely resembles a gunshot wound. The man cries out for a moment, then bites his arm. With that, she ties the old shirt around his middle and lays him back down. Then she sits. And waits. 

Another day slowly passes by, as does another night. The infection in Gary Fancis’s wound spreads. He begins running a high fever and shaking in the sheets of the cheap motel bed. All she can do for him is lay a damp towel across his forehead and use ice from the pail to run across the body. At first, he eats very little, then nothing at all as the pain takes him. The whiskey is nearly gone. She thinks that if she keeps dribbling it on the wound, it may start getting better. She realizes this is foolish. Her husband is dying soon. 

She checks out the window in intervals at his request. No one is after them. Yet. She tells him to quit worrying over the law, but he doesn’t. The worry isn’t for him anymore. When morning comes, they are both still awake. 

“Carol Jean,” he says. 

She is busy peering out the window through the blinds. 

“Carol Jean,” he repeats. 

“What do you want?” she asks, breaking away from the window. She faces him in her chair. 

“You was right. I’m dyin’ here. This is it for me.”

8 

She could have said it until her tongue dropped out of her mouth, and it still would have been nowhere near the same as him saying it himself. The toll of it maxes her heart. “Don’t you say that, Gary Francis,” she demands. “You’ll get up outta this bed, you tole me so yourself.” 

“I ain’t meant it. You was right the first time, Carolyn. God knows you always are.” She cries, chest heaving. “Oh, you stupid old man. Just stupid! Stupid, stupid!” He smiles and takes her hand. “I know, honey. But it’s too late for all that now.” She sniffles. “We had no business robbin’ that bank, not at our age. Should’ve left all that business in the past. Why’d we have to go back?” 

He squeezes her hand. “I don’t regret it one bit. I’d rather me go out like this than old age or disease. Probably you would too.” 

She shakes her head. “Prolly so, but that don’t make it right.” 

“Had to be some time.” 

“Why now, Gary? Please don’t let it be now.” 

“It’ll be soon. Ain’t nothin’ to be done about that.” 

“Then you’ll die a stupid old man.” 

“I ain’t stupid for savin’ you, Carol Jean.” 

“You shouldn’t’ve done what you did.” 

“That bullet would’ve took you. I couldn’t have that.” 

She holds onto his hand tight. “I still don’t know what you done it for. I ain’t good to you half the time.” 

“Quit that talk,” he says. “I know what I done and I’d do it again. So quit beatin’ on yourself.”

She nods. “Alright then.” 

“I got a little more to say before I’m gone. Will you listen?” 

She nods again. 

“Once I’m dead, you go ahead and leave me on this bed. You take that money, steal yourself a different car, and get away from here. There’s plenty enough money there for you to live a good life on. No one knows what you look like. They’ll find my body here and that’ll be the end of it. So you take that money and run with it, darlin’.” 

She cries harder. 

“Are you hearin’ me, Carol Jean?” 

“Yes, I’m hearin’ you.” 

“Good. Now gimme the last of that whiskey so I can go out with a buzz.” She hands the bottle over. “We still shouldn’t’ve robbed that bank.” 

He downs the bottle, sets it aside, then laughs. “Well, maybe not, but I loved every second of it, just like the old days. You did too, Carol Jean. I seen it on your face when we was runnin’ like a couple ‘a hoodlums.” 

“I suppose I did, at that.” 

He nods, then lies down to die. She can smell it coming on, the old friend, the relic called death. 

“You know I love you dearly, Carol Jean.” 

“I know it. And you was always my favorite cowboy, Gary Francis.” 

He closes his eyes. “That’s what counts, darlin’.” 

She continues holding his hand.

Two hours later, he’s dead. She knows it before even checking his heart. The tender love in his palm withered away as she held it, that’s how she knew. She weeps there on the chair, then stands and goes about doing what he told her to do before he died. 

She goes to the bathroom and fetches the big bag of money from under the kitchen sink where she stashed it when they first got here. She sets it on the bed beside his body, then looks out the window. No law, just a handful of empty cars. That’s just fine. 

She grabs a separate bag to put her few personal effects in. There isn’t much she can claim to own anymore. There’s a picture of Gary and herself. There's her purse. She would take his pocket watch, but he lost it while they ran from the bank. She gathers these handfuls of possessions together and sets them by the door. Then she turns back to the bed to say goodbye to her husband. 

She just looks down at his body for a while, then softly says; “I have had the time of my life with you, Gary Francis. For better or worse. I wouldn’t trade it for nothin’.” Then she grabs her things, takes the large bag of money from the bed, and leaves out the door. She doesn’t lock it so they’ll find his body later, just like he wanted. She walks around the back of the motel where the employees park their vehicles. She finds a brown truck that hasn’t been locked, so she decides that’s the one. She opens the driver’s door, climbs in, stuffs the bags in the back under the seats, then sits. She looks around, checking the area just like he taught her to do all those years ago. There’s no one around, the motel is practically deserted. She hotwires the truck, and it starts for her with a roar. She can’t help but smile. If only he were next to her. But he ain’t. 

She takes the truck around the motel, checking all the time, and creeps it across the main entrance and parking lot. She checks the rearview mirror time and time again, hoping for whatever she’s hoping for, but nothing ever happens. The door of that motel room doesn’t open and the cops don’t round the next corner. If she’s going, she'd better do it now. She drives away from the motel in the opposite direction they came in.