"You always ran from me," she says, hugging you close to her bosom. This bosom is so profound that she can hug you to it from across the room. "You run and run and keep on running. Just cuz I am supposably a burnout?" She is looking even better than she did when she hung out beneath the bleachers trying to get a striped sunburn on the sweet spot where her halter top showed off her tummy. She has changed in many ways. Maybe she is doing yoga now, or perhaps just not sucking the gas out of all those cans of whipped cream. "I don't remember," is all you can say. So you say it again. "I don't remember." She drags you over to the juke box and you wonder if there is something sinister behind it, or underneath it, or inside it. "Can you waltz?" asks the tough girl. Why can't you remember her name? Something with a G in it somewhere. "I could waltz. I could also just skip that part." She looks at you as though she does not know what you are talking about. Or maybe she does know. Maybe you don't know what you are talking about. She pulls a can of Skoal out of her back pocket and offers you a dip. You take the biggest dip ever contemplated and immediately fear you will get caught drooling brown goop out your mouth while seducing her, but it is too late now. You had better spit. OK, spit again. Good. She smiles at your spitting skills. She suggests the two of you leave the bar, so you follow her to the outskirts of Pike City. You think you can remember someone telling you about a huge patch of wild rhubarb that grows around here. You think she might like a snack. Suddenly you notice that she has taken off her socks. Or maybe she never had any socks, ooh la la. You always liked girls with soot on the bottom of their feet. You try to recall if she had them and took them off, and is slowly getting naked along the creek, or if maybe she never had socks at all and only brought you out here to take your socks like some sort of grifter switch. But so what? You would give her your socks and the next three days worth of socks if that is what she wants. Socks are not too much to ask. So begins some sort of game where you try to get her naked but there is always another layer beneath. A sweater beneath a halter beneath a blouse beneath a bra beneath, somehow, another sweater. Finally she pulls you near only to blindfold you with one of your own socks. You get woozy and wonder why it is you never remember to clean these things. But the smell is coming from somewhere else. You know you smell something but you can't quite place it. Some sort of childhood snack. Of graham crackers or saltines. No, sweet like a butterscotch that has been left on the radiator, smoky and kind of sweaty, too. To try to figure out the smell, go to page 5. To ignore the smell, go to page 4. To go looking for Flanagan go to page 12.