He felt truly at home in the cramped old library surrounded by the smell of moldering books and titles recalling a different era.

"Whether I was willing to admit it or not we were slowly drifting apart like Arctic Sea ice in summer," he told me through his tears.

He crossed the country on horseback, a price on his head and a target on his back, just to spit on his enemy's grave.

Twenty-eight days later I stepped out into the blinding light of the outside world and headed to the corner where I knew I could score.

We had some good times in the Badlands.

Her memory was a tumbledown mansion to which she had retreated years ago.

Like a prisoner who made his escape using only a spoon to dig his way out of his cell, I chipped away at my workload hoping to leave the office before midnight.