After he identified himself, his mission, and the fact that he was unarmed, the man behind the shotgun poking out of the narrow crack of the open door said gruffly."Turn your horse so's we can see you get off and step down, real easy with your hands where I can see them!"Jesse did as instructed. After stepping down, he dropped the reins, ground hitching his mount, while he remained standing with his hands shoulder high.The voice then told him, "Step up on the porch and stop."Again Jesse did as instructed. He unstrapped his crutches from the horse and hobbled up onto the porch."You say you were with my boy when he died?"Jesse responded, "Yes, sir, he was one of my crew on a twelve pound Napoleon cannon."The voice then said, "All right, step in, but slow and easy. No quick movements or I'll cut you in two!"Jesse stepped slowly inside where he was offered a chair at the rude table in the rude little cabin. He rested his crutches against the table. The shotgun was lowered to a position. Usually I strung up my beloved green and orange sarong at the end of the bed for a modicum of privacy. You never knew who might be coming or going in a backpacker place. But did I remember to do it last night? Something told me I hadn’t. It had probably been a dark fumble. I wouldn’t have wanted to wake the others. Even after a few beers, dormitory etiquette was second nature to me. Whatever. My head swirled. We were eight degrees south of the equator. Thirty degrees celsius. It felt like it was very early. Too early to reconstruct my evening. My tired body insisted it was the middle of the night, even as the brightness of a new day probed at my eyelids. I was still a sleepy mush.I groaned and turned my head to face the wall, splaying my fingers wider under the pillow. The mattress was thin and lumpy. I turned on my side for a few minutes. Hotter. Sweatier. My thighs stuck together. My upper arms and my torso and my breasts broiled against each other.Too much tacky skin on tacky.
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