Consider the jackrabbit. Desert hare, if you will. Masters of disguise, really. When danger looms, they go stock-still, dust and tawny coat blending so perfectly into their dust and tawny background they're damn near impossible to see.

Now consider how this same jackrabbit -- desert hare -- would find it damn near impossible to blend in with an elegantly lit, gracefully designed room, glowing with soft blues and purples. Even standing very, very still.

Sundance's coat is tawny, and dusty. He's got dirt on his face and nobody else is wearing a hat and his hair ain't been washed in days, and even though he's standing very, very still, all wary lines and taut cautious stance, he's pretty damn sure there's nothing that's standing out worse, right now, right here, than him.

He's even more sure he shouldn't've had that last drink.

His eyes are round and getting wider by the second, and in his chest, that jackrabbit is making a break for it, running circles, thumping panicked paws on the inner rungs of his ribcage.

But he don't move. There's nowhere to make a break for.

At least no one's tried to shoot or arrest him. Yet.