The golfer groaned.
"Let me see," Sleep said. "I asked you a question, that was it—what club ya' use on the par-3 water hole at Jax? I must have driven along 10 miles waiting for you to give the answer, thinking, boy, you're really putting your mind to it, and then I looked over the back seat and you wasn't there! Well, I nearly drove the car into a tree. I figured you stepped out somewhere to groove your swing and I remembered that railroad crossing...where was it?"
"Mullins," the golfer said. "They have another town in that area called The Gulch."
"Yes," Sleep said. "So I drove back. I like driving. You know how much 1 like driving."
They went on in silence for a while.
The golfer finally couldn't contain himself. "You know what I did there in that town of Mullins?"
"Well, not much," he said calmly. "Worked a kink out of my swing. Got my follow-through feeling a bit easier. Beat a man to death up in the north forty. Beat another man to death in Bull Creek pasture."
Sleep began laughing. "The sun got to you, eh? Man, this country's hot." He pointed to the passing pine forests. "You know something I figured: not much golf in these parts. Haven't seen a course, a driving range, pitch 'n' putt, nothing like that for 300 miles. Must be tennis country."
"Yes, I guess that must be it," said the golfer.