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of butchers, but Orlando is the best. He’s got a place down in South Pedroia, near our self-storage unit, packed to the roof with Hawaiian pants, none having sold so far, one of the reasons our finances are such a mess. People love Hawaiian shirts—today Bernie wore the one with mermaids, actually a bit scary to my way of thinking—so why not Hawaiian pants? That was how the whole business got started, Bernie knocking back a bourbon or two and suddenly asking that very question. I had no answer at the time and still don’t. All I know is that Bernie has never worn a pair of the Hawaiian pants himself. But back to Orlando, a little guy with huge arms and an apron that smells like you wouldn’t believe. “Hey, Chet, how about I saw off something real special for you?” That’s the kind of thing he says whenever we drop by. Why don’t we drop by more often? Why?
    â€œHow come Chet just barked like that?” Charlie said. Or something close: hard to tell with his mouth so busy with potato chips.
    â€œThat muffled kind of bark?” said Bernie, reaching into the potato chip bag. “It’s because he’s so busy gnawing on that enormous bone.”
    â€œBut what was he barking about?”
    They gazed at me. I gazed back at them.
    â€œHard to tell,” Bernie said.
    â€œIt sounded kind of impatient, Dad.”
    â€œWhat’s he got to be impatient about?”
    Try not dropping by Orlando’s often enough. But who wants to sound impatient? Not me. I concentrated on my bone and forgot everything else. Was there some talk about saguaros and their red fruit and the drinks the Indians made from it? And about not calling them Indians, Dad? And all the ones I know actually do call themselves Indians, Charlie? And so how about coming to school and telling that to the class, Dad? And more back-and-forth like that? I couldn’t tell you. But if you’re interested in the bone: heaven.
    Next thing I knew we were back in the car. We drove deeper into the desert, smells of sage and mesquite and greasewood drifting by, the sky its very bluest. No complaints, amigo. Do you ever think: What if time stopped right now? I never do, but Bernie does. He’s mentioned it more than once. I kind of hope he doesn’t again. It makes me a bit nervous.
    â€œPorsches are expensive, huh, Dad?” Charlie said after a while.
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œDaddy Mal.”
    â€œDaddy Mal?”
    â€œThat’s what they—um.”
    â€œThat’s what you call Malcolm?”
    â€œUh-huh. He’s Daddy Mal and you’re, like, just plain Dad.” I caught Charlie shoot Bernie a quick glance. Bernie was looking straight ahead, eyes on the road.
    â€œSounds good to me,” he said.
    Not long after that, we turned onto a narrow, unpaved track. Bernie slowed down, checked the screen of his phone. “Getting close.” We rounded a hill and rode down to a dry wash lined with trees, where the track ended.
    â€œAre we there?” Charlie said.
    â€œNot yet,” said Bernie. “But it’s as far as we can go in the Porsche.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€™Cause it’s so expensive?”
    Bernie laughed. “This is a real old one, Charlie. Got it dirt cheap. But it’s not meant for open country like this.” We got out of the car. Bernie stuffed some water bottles and my portable bowl in a backpack, and we crossed the wash and climbed up the far side.
    â€œBut someone’s been driving here, Dad,” Charlie said. “See these tracks?”
    Bernie smiled. “A natural.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?” said Charlie.
    â€œNothing,” said Bernie. He got down on one knee, took a close look at the tracks. Charlie did the exact same thing. “At least five different sets here, some coming in, some going out. See how this one’s crumbled the tread marks of the