He went out across the yard and through the gate into the alley where the Chrysler was parked. He lifted out the backseat and opened the crate of liquor and brought out a bottle of his father’s hoarded scotch. Set that in the sand at his feet. Then opened the wood case holding the L. C. Smith and took it out and used the oiled rag laid flat in the bottom of the case to run over the gun. Then broke it open and reached again down into the backseat and rummaged for his vest and pulled free a pair of shells. No. 6 birdloads. It was what he had. He slid them into the gun and snapped it shut. With the shotgun in one hand he bent and carried the bottle of scotch with him back into the yard. At the slave cabin he went in and laid the shotgun upright in the corner by the head of the bed. Once the gun was laid up he slid his hand down to make sure the safety was off. His hands running over the gun in the dark an old familiar thing. Something known top to bottom. He could not say for sure why he wanted it there but knew he did. Something simple. The way you checked to make sure your shirt was tucked in before going in someplace. Then he took the bottle of whiskey and went back to the house. Passing Glow down on her stomach, her front paws pinning down the empty tin, her head up inside it. Her teeth scraping against the folds of soldered tin. Eating nothing but flavor. The scent of something.

There were jelly glasses on the drainboard but he left them there and went to the china safe and opened the wide double doors and peered in at the neat dust-ribboned stacks. Found a set of short squat tumblers and lifted down two in one hand. Light as holding a pair of postcards. He took them to the sink and rinsed and dried them, running the sacking rag over them until they shone bright in the light. And carried it all into the dining room. Again through that silent door.

He set the glasses on the table and made no show with the bottle but twisted off the seal and poured both glasses half full and set the bottle on the table and sat down. His chair now pushed a little back and to one side from Mebane. Without waiting he said, “My dad had a couple crates of this buried out back of the house. When he was killed I dug one up and brought it with me.”

Mebane leaned to peer at the bottle, took up the glass and sniffed at it, then sipped. “That’s the real thing, ain’t it.”