We were together for so long but I still remember it like yesterday.

There I am, sitting in my usual spot overlooking a low, sagebrushed hillside, caressed by the warmth from the sun and the occasional, welcome breath of wind. I’m waiting. For who or what, God only knows. I see a lot of men pass through here, engaged in their own pursuits; but none of them seem interested. It’s like I’m just a convalescent to them, I have too much age and not enough flair for their tastes; I don’t elevate their status in society, such as it may be. But still I sit here, one day after another, waiting for someone to stop and take notice. Just sit tight, I tell myself. The right guy will come along one of these days.

However, the way old man Rundle behaves around here, I begin to wonder if one of these days will ever come.

There he is again, coming out of that rat hole he calls an office with another client in tow. I watch them in my peripheral vision; I don’t even need to look straight at them to know where old man Rundle is going. He’s leading this fellow to the same place he always does, trying to push the same fat, useless piece of niu fen on him that he always pushes on his customers. Still, I can’t help trying to hear their conversation from where I’m sitting. Rundle’s path never diverges, but I’ve heard it said that the buyer is the one who’s liable to stray.

Rundle is making jolly conversation as he marches along the same path he’s nigh on beaten into the sagebrush. He asks the client his name and that’s my cue to perk up, see where this conversation is likely to go.

Malcolm Reynolds.

Decent sort of name, I think to myself. I listen closer, as closely as I can from where I sit, and I study the newcomer from afar. He’s got a few miles on him and no doubt of it. Has the look about him of a man who’s seen too much, a thirty-year type maybe, or a veteran of that gorram war that dumped me here in the first place. But he’s still got a fire in his eyes that doesn’t cool, not even on St. Albans. He’s a surv