This could be a foreign country. The female clerk in the convenience store calls me “babe.” I’ve been looking for a job since I hit town; they’ll trace me by my social security number unless I find something off the books—digging ditches, trimming trees, or roofing. I stop at one of the few lights in town. The guy in the pickup in front of me sits shoulder to shoulder with his curly-haired girlfriend—the way we did in high school. I do a double take. That’s not his girl. It’s his dog, and it’s not wearing a seat belt.