Leaving Dr. Hakimzadeh's office, Maverick took in the humidity, so thick he briefly wondered if the air would suffocate him. He climbed into the monstomobile and drove a quarter mile to the Trip and Go gas station.

He didn't see Jet behind the counter. Oh well, if she was behind that counter, bored and tapping a pen on the glass covering the winning scratch-offs from prior patrons, what would he say? What did he ever say? Hey Jet. Hey you, she would say back.

Instead of a burger, Maverick bought a bottle of grain alcohol. No brand name, simply a white label with the words "grain alcohol" in bold black letters. He had seen similar containers housing his food in the school cafeteria of Nobility, TX.

He twisted off the plastic lid and took a swig of sour fire. He crawled in the monstomobile, the battered shocks squeaked sharply. The air conditioner blew hot air until Maverick pulled onto the road. He looked in his rearview for Sheriff Glaser.

Maverick called him "sheriff" long before he earned the title. The man always stuck up for Maverick, as a child and even now. Maybe Glaser felt a camaraderie as they were both old, fat men nearing the end of their relevance. Or maybe Glaser just felt pity.

He was always the man who brought Maverick every rumored sighting of Franklin Casey or accompanied him to morgues several counties over to check out the John Does.

"We'll find Bubba, son. Soon enough," he said, again and again, on the long drive back in the cruiser, the armrests and interiors sticky with tobacco.

Maverick was fifteen when the sheriff, then just a local cop, picked him up. He had no leads. He just said he wanted to talk. He turned off the radio, the car gently bumping over the white rock and dirt roads.

"I'll keep looking. You know that. But you remember your daddy. Franklin...had moods. A lot of people loved him. A lot of people didn't. Mischief and all, you know?"

Maverick nodded.

"But those moods, they put him in dark places. You know, more than once, your momma called me to talk him down from hurting himself. Or her."

Maverick ordered him to stop the car. Glaser complied. Maverick started to leave the car, but the officer put his hand on Maverick's shoulder.

"He was a good man. But he was troubled. You're old enough to know. We might not find him. But if you obsess over this, it will destroy you, kid."

Maverick tried to stifle the sobs. But Glaser told him to let it out. He knew Maverick had to be a man at home, but here he could be a kid.

"Just go home. Live your life, like he would've wanted."

He took Maverick home. He kept Maverick updated, reporting potential sightings that became more scarce over the years. But he never again picked him up to identify a body or visit another department.

The next morning, Maverick skipped school and went after the monster.

Decades later, Maverick knew he couldn't search for the creature the way he once did. Just a few years prior, he noticed how the night before an expedition he would plot his day, planning on covering three or maybe even four quadrants, only to find his back stiff and legs aching after one.

His mind never caught up with his body. Each morning he woke in the monstomobile, he felt genuine surprise as the muscles in his lower back tensed, causing him to wobble to his feet and brace himself against the plastic boxes surrounding him for stability.

This was even before the stomach pains.

The monstomobile had now become his true home, hadn't it? What did he need the other one for? Nothing, as it turned out. He wouldn't even need the monstomobile soon, would he?

He thought about his dad. He was much older than his dad was when he left Maverick and his mother. No warning. Their last talk seared in his mind. His father sitting at the kitchen table, in overalls and nothing else, shoving burnt bacon into his mouth.

"Where you headed, son?" He asked.

"Exploring," Maverick said, pulling the backpack over his skinny shoulders. "Gonna take the twenty gauge. Just in case."

"Well goddamn, Maverick," he said, smiling. "Not taking any chances, huh?"

"Nope," Maverick said, beaming.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Labor day!"

"That's some bullshit," his dad said, feigning outrage. His father's skin was tight and dark from the sun, his face appearing cracked instead of wrinkled, and the parts of him above the elbows and under the neck were a stark white.

"I say leave the gun behind." His dad smeared the last piece of bacon in runny egg residue.

"You think?" Maverick asked.

"All you'd do is piss it off. My daddy told me bullets just make it mean." Franklin smiled and winked.

"Okay, I'll leave it."

"Well, enjoy your expedition, I gotta be at work soon. So, see you after work, buddy."

Maverick said he would. Leaving the kitchen, he saw the gun by the door. Changing his mind, he grabbed the cold barrel and checked his bag again for his canteen and jerky. He shut the door and never saw his father again.

* * *

When Maverick finally parked the vehicle in front of his trailer, the headlights illuminated Cushing and Brian sitting on his porch.

"Hey fellas!" Maverick called, laughing and slamming the door behind him.

"Where you been?" Cushing asked.

"Just running some errands." Maverick shrugged and gripped the neck of the bottle in his left hand.

"We were supposed to meet up three hours ago!" Cushing said.

Brian cleared his throat.

"Right, right," Cushing said. He cleared his throat and coughed. "Look, sorry about before. I just got a little nervous with you waving that gun around."

"That's fine." Maverick fished in his back pocket with his left hand.

"To answer your question, no. Earlier, you asked if I thought you were crazy. No. I don't," Cushing said.

"But you do think I'm a joke, right?" Maverick finally retrieved the lighter from his pocket and dropped his wallet in the same motion.

"Look, it's easy to laugh at people like you. But I think...after this film comes out, people will look at you differently," Cushing said.

* * *

During their wait, Brian attempted to instill a little empathy into the cable TV show host. "Come on, man," Brian had said with a cough. "You're both fuck ups trying to do something big. Have a little compassion. Here, last hit."

"Fuck ups, huh?" Cushing had said.

"I mean that as a friend," Brian said. "Remember, he has a purpose. You're big on that, right?"

* * *

Cushing continued his speech to Maverick. "They'll see the dedication, the sacrifice, your tragic past...they won't call you crazy."

Maverick nodded. He looked at Brian, who gave a thumbs up with the hand not holding the smoldering joint.

"Then I wouldn't film this part," Maverick said, smiling.

Returning to the monstomobile, he took a grease rag from the floorboard. Opening the bottle, he shoved the rag into the top, the oil stained fabric hanging out like a ponytail.

"What's that? Shine?" Cushing laughed.

"Funny," Maverick said. "Hey camera guy!"

"Brian," he said.

"All right. Brian. Why don't ya jump off that porch real quick?"

"Seriously, what is that stuff?" Cushing pointed at the bottle.

Roman dropped off pictures, but he never bothered to check on the roof. In a few seconds, it wouldn't matter.

"You guys ever heard of a Molotov cocktail?" Maverick asked.

"When did you buy that?" Cushing asked.

"After my appointment, while you and your cameraman were getting baked on my porch."

"I have a prescription," Cushing said.

"No judgment here," Maverick said. "Oughta be legal everywhere soon enough. Where you at, Brian?"

"Right here!" Brian jogged up with the phone rig.

With a snap, a tiny flame jumped from the lighter. Touching the flame to the grease rag, a plume of fire erupted.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Cushing asked.

Maverick tossed the flaming bottle. Cushing yelled for him to stop as the bottle burst and spread flame across the wooden porch.

"Might as well save them the trouble, you know?" Maverick said.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you?" Cushing screamed.

"Don't worry, there are plenty of nicer boxes out there I can sleep in."

"We should call the police, the-the fire department!" Brian yelled.

"Eh, it will have burned itself out by the time they got here. Why are you so worried, Cushing? It was your idea."

"It was a literal shack, but I didn't mean burn it down!" Cushing said.

"You suggested it," Maverick said. He thought of the box in his room, the one with the framed articles and magazine cutouts and fiddle backs inside. The box that held newspaper clippings about the Bigfoot hunter who brought the town some much-needed attention in the 70s. When Maverick was a man with a wife and friends and a mission.

"Please do not tell the police that. What is wrong with you?" Cushing asked.

"Shit," Maverick said. "Should have bought another bottle. One of you wanna drive me up to the store?"

Brian leaned into Cushing ears. "I don't think he's doing so well."

"You aren't going to film this?" Maverick asked. Cushing elbowed Brian.

"I told you," Maverick said, watching the flames spread into the trailer through the open door. "This is it. My last time out. No going back."