"I reckon if I run into anyone else familiar, they'll let me know if the lake boiled sulfur or the moon did circles in the sky."

Or whatever crazy nonsense that this damn bar felt like getting up to.

Dinner arrives, and given the way the rat struggles with the tray, you'd think that Bar was convinced that neither of the men ordering had eaten in a week. (More true in Doc's case than Will's, however.) It's comfort food - for Doc, at least - fried catfish, a mix of vegetables, potatoes and gravy, and biscuits.

"Thank the Lord above," Doc mutters, reaching for a plate.