He looked down at the dust caked onto the leather toes of his boots. Brown boots, he reckoned, wouldn’t show dirt quite so readily and he’d get plenty of wear out of them. “They don’t make ’em like this no more” the man had said when Taylor bought them. His skin had been rough and dark and he stank of nicotine and breakfast beers, among other things. It was as if one of the boots had been dragged through a trailer park septic tank then given a store to run. Taylor held on to a few particular doubts about the human outhouse’s authority on the matter but realized he was in no position to argue. Like wild dogs, these people could smell the city on him just as he had to endure what he prayed was just the “country” on them.