“It was three does and a buck. There wasn’t much to looking after them besides feeding and watering. Those rabbits had it better than we did. When it got hot I soaked burlap sacks and spread them over the hutches to cool them while we suffered with a swamp cooler. I was only ten years old but already knew I couldn’t live like that.”

I dropped to my belly when a car came down the road and hissed for Sally to do the same. The white Cadillac turned into the driveway of the house, the garage door rose, and a light went on. While the driver, a white boy, waited to pull into the garage, a tall, bald black man got out of the back seat and walked to the front door of the house. He had those scars on his forehead, the kind you sometimes see on African brothers. I passed the binoculars to Sally.

“That’s him,” he said.

Beaumont went inside, and the garage door clanked down behind the car.

I’d learned enough for one night, didn’t want to push my luck. Sally and I crept to the truck and came back to the motel. He kept at me the whole way, asking when I was going to make my move on Beaumont. I told him I hadn’t worked out yet whether making a move was worth my while. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and I had to lock him in the box so I could get some peace.

That was an hour ago. I’m going to hit my knees here before I go to sleep and ask God for guidance, and hopefully my prayers won’t be snatched out of the air by any devils working to defeat me.

TODAY’S PASSAGE: To expect the worst is to set yourself up for failure. Prepare for the worst. Expectation is passive. Preparation is active. Always be active.

—Listen, Respond, Win: A New Path to Success
by Dr. Christine Pellegrino

July 2, 1976, Las Vegas

I got no direction last night, no revelations or commandments. Whether or not I was going after Beaumont, though, my arsenal needed beefing up. So, after a banana and a cup of instant coffee, I went to a sporting-goods store and bought a twelve-gauge shotgun and shells; more rounds, an extra magazine, and a shoulder holster for the .45; and a hunting knife with an ankle sheath.

Back at the motel I loaded the magazines and put one in the .45. The holster was invisible under my jacket, and after a little practice my draw was pretty smooth. I’ll never again be overwhelmed like I was by the woman and child. Whenever I hunt from now on, I’ll be armed to the teeth and loaded for bear.