Steve was a writer as I had known working writers to be. His house was full of books and artifacts from his life, pictures done for him by his favorite illustrator. He had a tendency to talk, endlessly, and latch on to the one thing you said he knew enogh about to keep talking. Some mix of well educated middle class wrapped up in an unpretentious shell. He had been a nice enough guy that I decided to read his book. “This is his only autobiographical piece,” CM told me. “All of his other books are about hunting.” I read the introduction, even though it’s something I rarely do.

East of Amarillo, it’s all suburbs.

I started to laugh and laugh until I was on the verge of crying. I’d given that book to Alec years ago.