“Because y’all are dressed like some fancy California drug types is all,” he said. “Don’t be needing that mess in our community. First come the Hollywood folks, then comes the crack cocaine.”

“We were at a funeral,” said Murphy.

“Les, I tell you, when you’re right, you’re right,” said the other man, who must have been Benny. “Can’t trust Hollywood types. Money, money, money, that’s all they want. Don’t give a hoot for the soul. Never have.”

“We were at our mother’s funeral,” said Murphy. “Our mother just died. We’re not from Hollywood.”

Les looked us up and down, a peculiar squint on his face.

“My condolences,” he said. “Never an easy thing, losing a momma, though everybody’s got to do it sooner or later.” He coughed. “Now what was I saying?”

“You were talking about time, as I recall,” said Benny.

“Sure, sure,” said Les. “Time. You ready?” He took a big puff of his cigar and blew the smoke out slow, for emphasis. “Time is just a dot.”

“A dot?” said Benny.

“Yes, sir,” said Les. “A dot. As in, it all already happened.”

“All of it?” said Benny.

“Everything. The whole history of the world.” He snapped his fingers. “Boom. Over and done with it. It all already happened, and we’re just now getting around to it.”

Benny snorted.

“That’s bullshit,” he said. “It ain’t a dot, Les. It’s a loop.”

“A loop, you say?” said Les.

“Yeah, a loop. You know, the same things happening over and over again. Nothing ever really changes.”

This was useless. I guessed we’d just have to drive around until we found the Farm ourselves. I turned to head back to the car when the lady with the ponytail called out to me.

“What do you kids want with Mena, anyhow?” she said. “Don’t nobody go out to the Farm anymore, not these days.”

“She’s our grandmother,” I said. “We just want to see her.”

The woman squinted at us for a minute. Then she flicked her cigarette on the pavement and toed it out, a second cigarette somehow already in her hand. She lit it and took a long deep breath, held the smoke in, and squinted at us again.

“Grandkids, huh?” She shook her head. “Well, that figures, doesn’t it.”

“What figures?” I said.

“That Jenny’s dead.”

The way the woman spoke that sentence made it seem final to me somehow. It was like a big black crow of sadness came and perched on my shoulder right then and there.

It was true. Mom was dead, and she always would be. That was the end of it. In that moment, the sun burning down on us, the light tossing shadows everywhere, it felt like I was on the fringe of the world, the very teetering edge.

“Farm’s about a mile up yonder,” the woman said. “Nothing but dirt roads, I’m sorry to say. They’re gonna do a number on that vehicle of yours.”

“Who gives a shit?” said Murphy. “It’s our stepdad’s.”