“Shit …” Hogg’s thigh tensed: the clutch disengaged. He palmed one of the gear shifts back. “Me, I ripped off my first piece of pussy when I was nine. And I ripped it, too.” Hogg suddenly laughed, as some memory returned to surprise him. “My little sister, Betsy. Bitch bled like a throat-cut nanny goat. Hollered up shit. Daddy came in and swore he were gonna beat the two of us to death. But he got to laughin’ over it—Daddy had a real sense of humor—and he beat us, too. But he’d hit us twice, then he’d get to laughin’ so hard he’d have to go and sit down. He’d take a drink, then he’d come back and start beatin’ all over again. I guess Momma was too drunk to care. Daddy used to beat up on her too; and she’d just cuss him out and then go get drunker. First piece of pussy I had to beat up on myself—” We turned a corner and the light put a bright edge up Hogg’s profile—“was when I was fourteen. Mmmmm, that was sweet. A couple of years older’n me, and lived down the road. I’d follow her into the woods, then knock her around until she let me fuck her. Later, I used to get my brothers and we’d all go knock her around. She used to run when she seen us comin’.… But she never told.” He laughed. “Didn’t run too fast, neither.”

“You grow up around here?” Jimmy asked. His hands had slipped down between his knees and were working a little—but too far forward for him to be doing anything.