Norman thought the old guy might sleep the rest of the way, but no such luck. He soon stirred.

“He figured as much,” he mumbled.

The man reached inside his rumpled jacket for the paper bag, fumbled with the cap, and tilted the bottle to his mouth. He gulped softly before lowering the bag. Norman watched, curious to see how the old man would act and what he had gotten himself into. He sensed the guy knew he had done him a favor, and the feeling was fortified when the man paused before replacing the cap. He slowly pushed the bag in Norm’s direction. Norman put his hand gently on the man’s forearm and shook his head. The fingers screwed the cap back on the bottle and pushed the sack back inside the coat.

‘That’s what Angus would do,” he mumbled further. “Angus always shared with him. Angus always knew what to do, even if he didn’t.”

Norman looked at the whiskered chin and listened to the fuzzy words. No wonder everybody had moved away from the old guy at the first chance. His whiskey talk would drive you nuts, but the night was long, and Norm needed something to pass the hours, something better than fitful dreams. Besides, the old timer’s eyes were bright under the silver brows. The light was on in there. You never knew what went on in another person’s head, and Norman had nothing better to do than find out.

“Angus was smart, too,” the old man continued after a short pause, wagging his finger at no one in particular, “smart like a fox. Angus knew right where to look. After all the rest of them gave up, Angus could find it. And Angus was good. There was plenty to go around, and Angus shared it with him.”

Norman humored the old guy.

“Who’s Angus?”

The man stared at the blackness outside the window, but Norman could still see the reflected face in the glass.

“Angus shared it with him,” he mumbled.

Norman thought the man was falling asleep, but the voice started again.

“Everybody liked Angus. Angus was good. He didn’t like everybody, and everybody didn’t like him, but Angus did. Angus gave them all they could drink.”

It sounded like he was talking about two things at once. Maybe Angus was a drinker too.

“Blue ten down. And it never ran out. There was always more. Angus made sure of it, and Angus shared with him. Angus was always good for a drink, too. It never ran out. None of it did.”

More of the same.

“Colder than a well digger’s ass!” declared the old man, slapping his thigh and laughing.

He didn’t really laugh like normal. His breath just wheezed from his throat in short bursts. He didn’t have much breath in the first place, and the wheezing that passed for laughter soon ended in a hacking cough that started deep in his chest. Norman didn’t like the sound of the cough. A cough like that usually came from people with tombstones in their eyes, just about like this old guy. He soon recovered, though, to continue the joke he had made.

“A well digger’s ass!” he repeated, still laughing in his funny way. “That’s what Angus always said. Angus joked with him about it.”

Norman began to see some sense in the he and him stuff. It sounded like “him” was the old timer. He always referred to himself in the third person, like he was detached and watching himself from a distance.

The old timer patted Norman on the forearm.

“You’re good, too, just like Angus. You helped him. You didn’t have to, but you helped him. Everybody liked Angus, because he was good, and he always gave them a drink. They liked Maxwell. ‘Cause there was always more to share. Angus knew right where to look, even after the rest of them gave up.”

And so it went as the Hound motored through the night, blurry talk about Angus and” him”, about sharing and being good, about a well digger’s ass, about always having enough to go around. As the minutes passed into hours. Norman only half listened, since the old timer repeated the same things over and over. It helped Norman to stay awake.

After a long time, the old man was quiet. It was late, and the whiskey bottle was empty. Norman thought the old guy was asleep until his bony fingers grasped Norm’s forearm again.

“There’s plenty to go around,” he said softly without opening his eyes. “Help yourself. He doesn’t have anybody. You helped him. Help yourself.”

Soon after that, the old guy was snoring softly.

Norman tried to sleep, too, but when he closed his eyes, he saw Lisa frowning at him. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to, either. He knew she was unhappy with him. Everyone was always unhappy with him in his dreams, unhappy, or disappointed, or something. The help group at his AA meetings said it was because he was unhappy with himself, and he figured that was probably right. Some even said that the people in his dreams were merely different parts of himself. Maybe that was right, too. Anyway, the dreams bothered him deeply.

He awoke with a start. Outside the window, he could see the slightest hint of dawn, the palest pink at the edge of the flat landscape, barely enough pink to define where the land stopped and the sky began. He looked over at the old guy beside him. He thought about trying to wake him, but decided against it. The man was sleeping too soundly. Instead, Norman watched the pink deepen at the horizon until he could make out the shapes of trees, houses and barns. The sun would soon be up.

Norman looked again at the man beside him.

“Hey!” he said softly. “We’ll soon be at the next stop.”

The old guy didn’t rouse, so Norman took hold of his wrist to give it a gentle shake.

“Hey! You should be waking up.”

The wrist was cool to the touch. Norman raised it, and then let go. It dropped limply back to the old timer’s leg. He felt without success for a pulse at the wrist, and again at the man’s neck. As a cop, Norman had seen death enough times to recognize it.

Norman walked quietly to the front of the bus and spoke with the driver who seemed to be a seasoned veteran of the road, maybe in his late fifties. He listened calmly to the news and responded as if he had dealt with that type of thing before. He said that they were nearly to the morning stop, and that he would call ahead to have an ambulance team ready. He thanked Norm and asked him to return to his seat without alarming the other passengers, which Norman did.

Norman knew of nothing else he could do, so he sank back into the cushion. Some time during the night, during his own fitful dreams, a life had slipped away beside him. He watched the peaceful expression on the old man’s face as the sun rose, sensing his own mortality, and wondering at the fleeting existence that we lived, fleeting, yet timeless, multiple lifetimes rolled into one, less difference between any of us than we could wrap our minds around.

When the bus slowed to a stop, the medical team was waiting. They checked the old man as the riders stretched their legs, going for breakfast at the restaurant. The EMT’s confirmed the death, and loaded him into an ambulance. Two sheriff’s deputies questioned the driver and Norman. Norm gave what information he could for the official report, and the officers thanked him and left. There was little to question anyway.

The old guy’s name turned out to be Noah. Norman thought about the whole thing over sausage, eggs and coffee. There was something that didn’t quite fit into the standard just-another-dead-drunk, no-big-deal explanation. Was that all there was to it? A small, nagging voice in the back of Norman’s brain said it wasn’t.

“Nothing in this universe happens by accident,” Henry used to say. “Everything has a reason. You just got to find it.”

The more Norman thought about it, the louder the nagging voice became, and the more he thought no, that was not all there was to it.

“There’s plenty to go around.”

Noah’s words rattled in Norman’s head.

“He doesn’t have anybody. You helped him. Help yourself.”

Maybe the words weren’t so crazy after all.

By the time the eggs, sausage, toast and coffee were gone, Norman’s mind was made up. The least he could do was pass along the news of Noah’s death to whoever might be alive to care. Maybe Angus was really a person. Or there could be some family. A personal visit would be better than a letter in the mail from the authorities, if one was ever sent. That was Norman’s logical reasoning anyway.

But then, there was also some illogical reasoning that drove him on. The old guy’s crazy ranting had planted the seed of a mystery somewhere deep inside Norman. Noah mentioned Maxwell, and a look at a map showed a town by that name that was directly north. Norman decided to find out what was there.