At the end of each of those days, when the boys were musty and worn out from a dawn till dusk assignment, Miss Mailley (depending on her mood) would carefully check to see if the shelves were overflowing, see if there was so much as a button missing, and once she was satisfied of their honesty, then she would offer each Black boy a choice. They could have candy, spices, tobacco, fabric, canned goods, cake, and around Christmas maybe a toy—a model train or a doll for a younger sister. That was how it was, congenial not friendly. Until that last Friday, the end of the work week as families prepared for Saturday activities and Sunday church. But that day, Tuck was uncharacteristically grouchy when Darlene snuck away from the counter to take her own break, when she sauntered past the rest of the boys with a tall mason jar of cool water, ready for whatever could happen this time behind the shed. She glided toward him.

“Hey,” she said, holding out the jar.

“Hey you,” Tuck said, his eyes distant like his compadres. He grabbed the water without saying thank you, then drank most of it in a couple of gulps.

“Y’all had a lot to do this mo’nin’?” she asked, wanting so badly to reach for one of his hands. But they were both locked behind his back.

“Same old same old,” he said, curiously unsmiling, like he had never seen her before. Behind them, she heard the crackle of wax paper unwrapping and light chuckles as one of the boys finished a joke. A yellow swallowtail butterfly flew in between her and Tuck, and she ached for him to have an impulse of romance that might push him to catch it for her. It swirled in the empty space between them for seconds, before fluttering away. He looked past her, as if aching only for his hoghead cheese and liverwurst sandwich. She had brought an apple for him, but suddenly remembered she had left it inside.

“You gone eat?” she asked, her head titled in fear that what her mother had told her was true: a man don’t love nothing after he spoils it.

“Pretty soon, yeah …” Sweat ran down from his dark chocolate face, from his forehead to the top of his fat, nearly black lips. She half expected a drop to lodge in the cleft of his chin, but he always licked it away before it reached that far. He rocked back and forth, made no move to touch her let alone lead her behind the shed. She turned around, wondering if maybe Miss Mailley or one of the White boys was watching. There was no one behind them but the other Black boys.