He sat up in bed a long time picturing Elisabeth as she created the oil.
Dean slumped down in his chair, his mind picturing a veiled fugitive, costumed as an old lady, slinking into a back pew.
He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day.
Dean asked, picturing the Scout creeping along a Kansas Interstate.
He still felt guilt-ridden over the redhead, but comforted himself by picturing her counting the money, thinking fondly of the great night at the casino with that sexy guy whose name she couldn't remember.