There is dust in the air as we walk. Dust which kicks and eddies up off the chalk dry field and settles on your skin, your hair, your teeth. There's been no rain for almost ten years now. None to speak of anyhow. There is dust in his voice as he speaks, saying -
My father grabs me by the arm as he lay in the bed. And he was still real strong, though he was pushing ninety. I was crying though I couldn't help it. Crying even when my wife came back in the room and daddy was screaming at me, screaming - you got to do this son, you got to do what I tell ya, bring me that gun, bring me that gun - and was all I could do to tell my daddy, no, I can't do it. I can't do it. And I had to walk out that room and have all them doctors and what not see me cry with my woman wiping my face and my daddy screaming for me to bring his gun...
The dog comes close. We stop walking and everything is still.
...he died next day though it wasn't of his own hand like he want to. And I swear that's the last time I cry and I won't never cry again.
I turn to look but he stares straight ahead.
I see a long, hard desert in his eyes and I know his words to be true.