Sometimes, Cash looked back on his life and wondered how in the fuck he got so lucky. It certainly wasnât because he was a good man; how many times could you kill a man after picking his pockets and still be let into heaven? It certainly wasnât just luck heâd had all his life; almost losing his brother numerous times, killing the kid over and over, living alone in a wasteland of dust time after time attested to that.
No, it wasnât from his own power that he was this lucky.
But as the warm body he held shifted, Pupâs skull shifting so that the still asleep skeleton could nuzzle into Cashâs chest, he found that, as long as this luck lasted, heâd be just fine.
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