Tony's wife Susan wore an open plaid flannel shirt over a vee-necked white t-shirt.
The tails hung out sloppy over her jeans. Her eyes were ringed with purple.

She was a big girl, as tall as Tony and blocked more light,
standing there in the kitchen in San Jose.

It surprised me that he married her when he learned she was pregnant.
Her mother seemed to be taking care of the infant girl much of the time now.

"Tony spent last night in a tree in the backyard," she told me.
"Somebody's been trying to harvest his plants."

"She's all: What are you doing up there? Come down! Right now!
And she's all crawling around in the bushes."
Tony's making fun of her, but she's not irritated. A big, serious girl, Susan.

Tony looked like he'd been up all night. He smelled of paranoid sweat.
His face was bright red, his smile, manic.

"He wanted me to get him a gun. Like he could really shoot someone."
She said this matter-of-factly, her arms crossed.

A bruise on her forearm: they'd been fighting again.

"I'm going to drink this. And go to sleep. Outside."
Tony held out an almost full bottle of Nyquil.

It was October, so it wasn't too cold yet to spend the night outside.
They were both sleeping out there in the backyard to keep watch on their crops.


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