He grabbed a bale of hay and hauled it over to the spot he had chosen. He strapped on the holster and checked the loads in the pistol. He whipped the heavy .45 up into what he thought was a gunfighter's stance and sighted down the barrel. "Bang!" he whispered, "You're dead." He reholstered the pistol and sat down on the bale of hay. "Or maybe undead. Whichever it is, you're going to have a couple of holes in your chest big enough for me to stick my fist through."

Dylan pulled the gritty hat down over his ears and wrapped the dusty blanket about his shoulders. He sat on the stickery hay bale and began his vigil.

By 10, he was bored. By 11 he was questioning his resolve. By midnight, he was angry with himself. By 1, he was furious at having been duped into what he was certain was the Latin version of a snipe hunt. By 2am, he was sound asleep, scrunched up on the hay bale and snoring like a big truck trying to climb a steep hill.

He awoke with a snort and tried to remember where he was while he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He was stiff from his contorted sleeping position and his face carried the impression of thousands of pieces of straw. He was almost startled to discover he was cradling a shotgun in his arms and wearing a pistol until he remembered he was supposed to be watching for a blood sucking creature of the night.

He looked around, sure that something had caused him to wake up. He had been dreaming that he was back in Economics class and the lecture was on the impact of teh North American Free Trade Agreement. There had been a slurping sound, like someone trying to get the last drop of soda with a straw. In the dream, the professor was explaining the sound was that of Mexico, sucking away jobs from the USA. Dylan knew that wasn't true, and was going to raise his hand in protest when he came out of the dream and woke up.