The next afternoon, we mosey on out to the stink wagon and poke our heads in the windows. Ahhh, the first whiff is nothing but "spring rain" carpet shampoo. Success! But wait . . . a wisp of something fetid curls toward our nostrils. Then a bouquet of unknown pedigree makes itself known. I stumble back, retching. The outdoorsman swallows hard, struggling to keep his stomach down. The fetor is so rank even the dog starts hacking and urping, all the while wagging his tail in hopes of getting to roll in whatever died inside the truck.

What the hell?! I spent a good two hours detoxing the floor mats, erasing the odor of ripe milk. But now the whole truck smells like sweet shampoo mixed with sour, rancid dumpster. Our eyes water as we open the doors and start probing for the source. We find an old tuna fish sandwich that has greened up nicely, a gelatinous mass that used to be a sprig of grapes, and a half-open jar of last year's coyote urine, none of which smell as bad as whatever's perfuming the truck. We're tossing rotten food into a big garbage can, emptying the truck of everything that could possibly contribute to the aroma. It's amazing what you can find digging through an outdoorsman's truck: a beer bottle packed full of fermenting sunflower seed hulls, a sweat- and blood-stained t-shirt, desiccated dog poop, and half a corn dog from last February that still looks like a corn dog, as fresh as the day it was bought. Yes, these items all reek. Yes, I am still gagging from the rotten tuna. But unfortunately none of these things reeks like the unknown reek that still swirls throughout the truck. We keep digging and digging. Finally the outdoorsman reaches under the back seat to put some rope away, and then he's backing away, coughing and cussing, waving his hands in front of his face like he's swatting at a swarm of yellowjackets. "Oh my sweet Lord," he grunts, "guess what I found?"

I stand back. He makes it sound like a game show. "Contestant number two, can you guess what's behind the green curtain?" My stomach quivers. I don't want to play this game. In fact, I don't want to be anywhere near the truck and whatever's inside. Suddenly, every muscle in my body wants nothing more than to run, fly, teleport far, far away.

"C'mon, guess," says the outdoorsman, grinning like a kid at Christmas.

My mind reels. "An old Happy Meal that's not so happy any more."

"Not even close," he says.

"Fish bait," I mumble.

"Good one, but nope. Try again."

"What is this, twenty questions?" I think to myself. "What do I win if I guess right?"

The outdoorsman laughs, then yanks his arm out of the truck, lifting his prize high. "This!" he cries triumphantly.

A wave of pure nausea swells out of the truck. The dog whimpers in ecstasy, slobber swinging from his jowls. I stagger back, heaving, and fall to my knees. The stench hits like a tsunami, suffocating, overwhelming everything in its path. I hold my breath, hands pressed against my mouth and nose, but it's no use, the odor seeps in, soaks into my skin, sours in my brain. The world spins and goes dark.

-from chapter 33, "Fun Game: What's that Stank?"