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Summary
Back in those hungrier days, Rust kept time on a choke chain.
Never let it wander too far ahead, and gave it a hard jerk when it lingered back where the real danger was. No amount of training gave him cause to trust it. Even when it meandered at his side, he got antsy. Time could get underfoot, tangle his legs, trip him up.
Best thing to do was fill its belly til it trudged the circular track, fat and placid.
So, as it were, he kept time fed and busy those first few months in Louisiana.
In which Rust's circle intersects with that of a female detective.