One of the things I like about this show is the relationship between Raylan and Boyd - there's a perceptible sense of relaxation and recognition in the scenes between the two of them. They're very comfortable with one another. This is set somewhere in season 2.

"Does that conclude our business this afternoon, Raylan?"

"What?"

Patiently, Boyd repeated the question.

"Oh. Yeah, I think it does." Raylan didn't make any move to go. Instead he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one boot over the other.

"Something on your mind?"

"You ever wonder what it would be like to lead a normal life?"

Caught off guard, Boyd chuckled. "That's not the kind of question I typically hear from you."

"I get that." Raylan turned his head to look at his old friend. "Still, I'd appreciate an answer."

"All right, then." Boyd leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head and studying the ceiling. "A normal life, you say. Well, Raylan, considering our respective fathers, I'm not certain what other kind of life you might have expected the two of us to lead."

"Oh, you're followin' right along in the family footsteps, I'll give you that. I'm sure Arlo wonders four or five times a day where he went wrong with me, though."

"No doubt he does, but he doesn't see the big picture. Apparently, neither do you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Raylan asked.

"You aren't exactly what you might call a 'by the book' marshal, are you, Raylan?"

He thought of Art's exasperated face. "No, not exactly."

"So the argument can be made that you are leadin' precisely the life Arlo raised you to lead … just on the other side of the fence. Which is, if you look at it right, precisely where he raised you to go—as far away from him as you can get. What neither one of you imagined was that gettin' as far away from him as you could brought you right back around to him again."

Raylan considered that for a moment. It made a strange sort of sense, as so much of what Boyd said did. "I s'pose you're right. I'm not sure if that's comforting or depressing."

"I'm often right, Raylan. I know that I, for one, take comfort in that." Boyd smiled, and Raylan chuckled.

Glancing at his watch, Raylan thought he really should be getting up and going. There were reports to fill out, phone calls to make, ruffled feathers to smooth over. He looked at his hat, sitting on the table, and thought about picking it up and putting it on, then decided against it. Boyd was watching him across the table, and Raylan stayed silent. He was tired of it all, so tired, and didn't feel much like getting up and getting back at it. For now, he'd stay right where he was sitting.

"What variety of normal life were you considering to be the ideal you have missed on your travels?" Boyd asked at last, and Raylan had to smile at the careful, considered way his friend put things. He'd never gotten that from his daddy, that was for sure. When Raylan didn't answer, Boyd went on, thoughtfully. "Around here, normal mostly means you go down the hole, you work a long shift, you come back up, you scrape together some money, you drink some beer—or somethin' stronger—and then you go back down the hole. I did that for some time, if you recall."

"I do. Then you quit and took up with your current arrangements." He didn't mention Ava—they both preferred to leave that topic alone.

"Wouldn't you have done so?"

He thought about it. The life Boyd described seemed … uncomplicated. "It'd have to be easier. Plus, you wouldn't get shot so much."

"I can't argue with that. Of course, if a man wants to keep from getting shot, he could always get himself sent back to prison. That does count as normal for a number of men of our acquaintance."

"True, but which would you rather be, shot or shanked?"

"Neither one, if I have my preferences, Raylan." They both laughed. "Was it more to your taste being a marshal elsewhere?"

"A little. Still, lots of shooting. Not that I mind shooting that much—I just prefer it when I'm not the one being shot at. Makes me think about being one of those guys who punches a time card somewhere, comes home every night to dinner."

Boyd nodded. "Relaxes in front of the television."

"That's it. Spends Sundays on the couch with a six-pack and a bucket of chicken, watching football."

"I do like chicken, I'll grant you, but I prefer mine home-cooked." Again, the thought of Ava hung between them. Raylan had to admit, she made a mighty nice fried chicken. "As for football … in the grand contest of skill between men, I prefer to pit my own skills against those who want to take what has always been mine rather than to watch the inelegant clash of bodies on the television screen."

"Too busy for a ball game, then?"

"You might put it that way."

"See, that's what I'm talkin' about. I would like, maybe for just the length of one football season, to live the kind of life where a man has time for a ball game."

A small smile crossed Boyd's face. "When I was recovering from being shot in the chest, I had plenty of time available. Would you like me to return that favor?"

Raylan chuckled. "No, no, I can't say I would."

"Then in that case, Raylan, I'm not quite certain what it is you want."

"To tell you the truth, Boyd, I'm not so sure myself." With a sigh, he got to his feet at last, picking his hat up off the table. He spun it in his hands for a moment. "I s'pose I'll see you later."

"I imagine you will. Our paths seem to cross with a certain amount of regularity."

Boyd didn't move as Raylan left, watching his friend depart with a speculative look on his face.

Raylan felt a little comforted … and a little not so much. Whatever he'd been asking Boyd for, whatever he'd wanted to hear, Boyd had managed to turn around and reflect back on him, and that wasn't the view Raylan had been after. It was, on the other hand, pretty much what he should have expected from Boyd. He sighed, sticking his hat back on his head and getting in the car, ready to get back to the business of marshaling.

A few weeks later, Raylan found himself alone in his motel room on a Sunday with a silent beeper and nothing to do. He was strongly considering going back to bed, even if it was the middle of the afternoon, when there came a knock at the door. He opened it—gun stuck securely in the back of his jeans, just in case—and saw a skinny teenaged delivery driver standing in front of it, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The boy glanced at a piece of torn paper in his hand and then back up. "Mr. Raylan Givens?"

"That's me."

"Yeah, this is for you." He held out a paper bag splotched with grease spots. Raylan sniffed the air and smelled … chicken?

"I didn't order anything."

The kid glanced at the paper again, and then back. "This guy said you did. Said you ordered a bucket of chicken and a six-pack. It's under the chicken," he added, lifting the bag a little higher.

"'This guy' say anything else?"

"Yeah, he said you should tell him how it felt sometime. That he was curious if it was … uh …" He looked at the paper again. "'Everything you dreamed it would be.' He talked like that; said I should say it just like he did. How'd I do?"

Raylan grinned, reaching for the bag. "You did just fine. He pay you?"

"No. He said it was, uh, part of your experience."

"Of course." Setting the bag down on the table inside the room, he dug for his wallet. "Let me ask you something, kid."

The delivery guy looked understandably nervous as he waited for the question.

"Is this kind of thing pretty normal for you?"

Frowning, the kid took the money Raylan held out. "No." He stood there for a second, then looked up at Raylan, squinting a little. "Nothing's normal, dude."

"Right." Raylan tucked his wallet back into his back pocket and watched the delivery driver get into his car and squeal out of the parking lot. Then he turned back into the hotel room, bringing the bag over to the bed. He flipped the channel to a football game, popped the tab on a can of the beer, and started in on the bucket of chicken.