“Just been wondering that myself.” The bus driver dropped his cigarette and twisted his toe on it. It became a small spot of paper, ash and tobacco, but Mister Leland could still see the printing in fine blue letters. “Today, I carried more niggers, men, women, and children, into New Marsails than I ever carried any day before, even more than on that day that ball club what had the first nigger in the major leagues played in New Marsails, but not one—that’s right, not even one—out of New Marsails. I leave them all at the depot and they all go inside. I see all kinds of niggers going in the depot, and the thing is, I ain’t seen one nigger come out. Now I ask you, where they going? And don’t make no mistake about it, it ain’t just from Sutton; it’s from all along the Highway. They come running out of the woods and wave me down and get on and move to the back. Back there looks like it’s jammed up with black sardines—with suitcases.”

“Mmmm.” Mister Harper nodded. He said nothing more, wheeled back to his place against the wall, staring into the Highway, not even attempting to control the conversations around him.

He said nothing until his daughter appeared with his lunch box and then only, “Thank you, honey.”

Mister Leland turned to watch him open it, to see what he would be eating, but his father tapped him on the shoulder and nodded for him to get up, and they went around back, sat in the sun, watched a group of birds swirling like wind-torn smoke far off above the Ridge, and ate sandwiches his father had made before waking him that morning. When they were through with the sandwiches, his father reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two apples, shined one on his chest and handed it to Mister Leland.

“Where all them ni-groes going, Papa?” He inspected the apple, trying to pick the exact spot to take the first bite.

“Don’t know, Harold.” His father bit into his, chewed, swallowed. “I reckon they all heading for some place where they think they can get on better.”

“Ain’t none of them coming back?”

“I don’t reckon so, Harold. I reckon they making what we called in the Army a STRATEGIC WITHDRAWAL. That’s when you got thirty men and the other side got thirty thousand and you turn and run saying to yourself, ‘Shucks, ain’t no use in being brave and getting ourselves killed. We’ll back up a ways and maybe fight some tomorrow.’ I reckon them Negroes is backing up all the way.”

“Don’t that make them scaredy cats, Papa?”

“Don’t think so. Seems like this time it should take more guts to go, boy.”