At 3 a.m., a half-dozen campfire singalongs were still resonating. Some were small, just a couple of people playing guitars. Some involved five or six musicians and 20 or more listeners. The biggest gathering was at a campfire where Rusty Wier, Ed Burleson, Michael Hearne, and a few other stage musicians were playing for free, taking requests, singing into the moonlight to people of all ages. Slowly, the campfires died, and the people straggled to their bedrolls to try to get a little rest and prepare for the next day. Not everyone slept. The party still flickered at the little river spot where the "Burleson rednecks" were camped. "Damn, I could eat some chicken tenders," one of them said. They had arrived the day before with plenty of beer but not a crumb of food. "We passed that chicken place -- let's take your truck and go get a 30-pack of chicken tenders." "No way, man, I've already got one DWI." "Let me drive." "No." "Fuck you." The argument continued for five minutes, with none of them pausing to consider the odds of a fast-food chicken restaurant being open at 7 a.m. in tiny Glen Rose. The morning sun streamed through the trees and glistened on the river, and they momentarily forget chicken nuggets and waded into cold water in their jeans to welcome the new day with a fresh beer and a fat joint.
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