The New Yorker (Oct. 25, 2010), 75-77.
Two agents. Waiting on the tree line watching the farm’s fields for signs that a crook named Carson has returned to his relative’s farm where he has buried some loot.
The boring nature of the wait, but afraid not to stop watching for fear that Carson would suddenly appear. Monotony. The time is taken up by the younger agent, streaming his thoughts endlessly on his theories about what was happening with Carson. The older agent listens without hearing, busy with his own thoughts, critical of the younger agent’s naiveté.
Certain that Carson would not show up, the younger agent stands up and walks out of the tree line, to be blasted away by Carson and his men.