The wood floor's the first thing I see when I meet Hunter for the first time. I'm passed out face down in a bar named PeriWinkle's in Durango, Colorado, and some goon's kicking me in the ribs.

I hear this gleeful voice warning the kicker that, "You'd best not do that. I've seen his kind. He'll get up when he's finally tired of it and kick your sorry ass right into Utah."

Hunter was right. I did.