Joe's truck. Still parked outside the bar. Windows rolled up. Wind presses against the glass like it's trying to peek inside.

"I need you to grant someone the mercy of ending her life," he says, plain as the miles-wide prairie view.

"Who is it?" I say.

Joe shakes his head. "People always said you were a screw up. But I didn't think it was this bad. You didn't even blink at what I said. Not even for a second."

It's not like I didn't know he wants his wife dead. Joe is a terrible secret-keeper. Always has been. Word got around on the prairie.

"Joe, the correct term is 'fuck up.' You can drop the Gideon church-mouth. If you think this is the first time I've been asked to kill someone, you're wrong," I say.

That's a lie. He doesn't need to know that.

I mainly do collections. Farmer-to-farmer stuff. Someone's cattle got into someone else's grain. Someone's chemicals went missing and showed up somewhere else. Someone trespassed and broke a farming implement.

Plenty of work in that line. People stay sore for years. They don't want to settle up in court. Too much open space around here to piss around with formalities.

"Fine. Yes, you're an f-up," Joe says. I grin at his self-censorship. "And I need you to ki...end someone's life. With compassion."

"You're being pretty blunt about this, too. If I was a cop, I could bring you in right now," I say.

Joe shrugs. In his best teacher voice, he says, "But you're not a cop."

Condescending prick.

I say, "Nope. I'm no one. Which is why you came to me in the first place. I take it our murder victim is your sick wife?"

Joe fires up the truck. He says, "Yes. And don't call it murder. It's an act of mercy."

"We'll compromise. Let's call it homicide. How's that, Gideon?"

Joe's eyes never leave the road the rest of drive.

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