The strap dug into my collarbone, but I ignored it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in three days,” Martinez said.

“I got two hours of sleep over the Atlantic,” I said.

We went out through the automatic glass doors.

The cold Oak Ridge morning air hit me in the face.

The Texas sky was still the color of wet cement.

Martinez led me to his pickup in the short-term lot.

He let down the tailgate.