I nodded.

“You may be right,” he said, after a long moment. “But I just hate that anything . . .” his voice trailed off.

“I don’t want to be the target of any kind of attack,” I said, after a pause. “I do not. But I also don’t want to cower in this hotel room.”

“And you want to see Hollis again.”

“Yes.”

He looked away for a second. “Okay.” He made himself nod. “It’ll be good to go to something different. Have a good time.”

I definitely didn’t want to stand out, but I also thought it might be disrespectful to under-dress. I had a hard time imagining what you’d wear to an al fresco gospel concert. I picked what I thought of as neutral clothes: good slacks, a sweater set, loafers. I snatched up a heavier jacket when Hollis picked me up. He was wearing new jeans and a corduroy shirt—the softest narrow-wale corduroy I’d ever seen. He had a jacket, too. And he was wearing cowboy boots, which surprised me.

“Nice footwear,” I said.

He looked down, as if he’d never seen his boots before. “I used to do a little riding,” he said. “I got to like ’em.”

He asked me how I was feeling after the incident of the morning, and I told him I was fine. That wasn’t entirely accurate, but close enough. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, and that was the truth.

There were cars parked all around the square, and the pretty streetlights that had been put up for the tourists lent the area an air of prosperity and quaintness. The broad courthouse lawn was strewn with folding chairs of all kinds. Little children were dashing through the gathering crowd, shrieking and excited in the chill evening air. Since I was an outsider, I couldn’t tell the leafers from the locals, but Hollis told me the ratio was about forty to sixty.

The stage that had been thrown up at the base of the old courthouse was not very high, and it was crowded with the equipment of the first group to perform. A woman in a long full skirt and a wide turquoise belt was tuning a guitar. Her gray hair fell to her waist, and her face was deeply lined, intent and calm. The men behind her were in their forties and fifties, and they all shared her air of professionalism.

“This here’s Roberta Moore and her Sons of Grace,” Hollis said. “They’re from over to Mountain Home.”

“How many groups will play?”