The outlaw is snoring in his rocking chair. He’s lugged the thing to the top of a parking deck and pointed it at where the sun will soon set. This morning it sat unrocking next to a potted fern on the porch of an azure little bungalow in Virginia Highlands. The homeowner ran her fingers slow through her bangs while the outlaw heaved the chair into his wheelbarrow. Thin bluish daylight glinted off of his chrome-painted plastic spurs as he swayed down the street and she stood bathrobed in her doorway, watching, until he rounded the corner. Now his hat is pulled down low over his face and it rocks very gently in pulmonary fashion. Who is the outlaw? What does he want from this world? Does he have a pinched, squinty kind of outlaw face like Jack Palance’s or Lee Van Cleef’s? It would be a serious breach of cowboy etiquette (which outlaws, while being on the opposite side of the government’s law, still tend to abide) to wake him up and ask. He does not have a pony or a six-shooter or a harmonica. Two teenagers rattle up in a chipped yellow sedan, three parking spaces to the left of the chair, and make out for a little while, unbothered by the outlaw; he’s part of the scenery. They leave right before the sun’s done setting. The sound of the car wheezing back to life wakes the outlaw, but he doesn’t move or think about anything except how the last scraps of tangerine sun feel on his neck.