There had been a time when Bubba might have confided such a theory with Smudge, but no more. He glanced at his good buddy and felt resentment. When they passed the Shrine of the Infant Jesus in Prague church, Bubba did not feel like turning the other cheek. When they cruised by Purviance Funeral Home, Bubba experienced dark feelings about Smudge’s longevity. When they entered Southampton County, where buzzards on the road were looking for snacks, Bubba thought about how Smudge had picked Bubba’s bones clean ever since they’d been friends in church.

Just beyond wetlands, Loraine’s Restaurant offered Fast, Friendly Service, a neon sign out front advertising FR ED SHR P OYST & CRA LE S $13.25 with a blinking arrow pointing to the small cream building with red trim. The parking lot was an old truck stop with piles of gravel, and islands where there used to be gas and diesel pumps. A Norfolk-Southern train rumbled behind the building as Bubba and Smudge parked and walked past front windows hung with Smithfield hams.

Loraine’s was a favorite hangout for coon hunters, although not as busy in chasing season as it was in killing season, which was fine with Myrtle, the cashier. She supposed she could understand killing coons years back when pelts were going for twenty dollars apiece. But no one bothered once the price dropped to eight dollars. Whatever the boys shot usually stayed in the woods.

Myrtle was always happy to see Smudge and Bubba. They hunted for the joy of putting their dogs through their paces, it seemed. They only killed coons when it was important to rev up the dogs again, make them believe if they treed a coon, maybe they’d get to kill it. Myrtle couldn’t count all the times coon hunters came into the restaurant dressed in Delta Wings camouflage covered with blood. The guys smoked and chewed. They ordered lots of hot coffee and All-U-Can-Eat fried oysters and shrimp, Captain’s Platters and meat loaf.

Tables were plastic-covered and designated with bingo numbers. Bubba and Smudge chose B4, with its cheery message, “Come Back Real Soon.” Bubba started digging in the little wicker basket of A-1, Worcestershire, sugar, Tabasco, and packets of jellies to see if there were any captain’s wafers hiding in there. A ceiling fan turned slowly. Smudge and Bubba looked at the specials on the board, next to a sign that read “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.”

“Let’s put it all out on the table, Bubba,” Smudge said, taking off his Ducks Unlimited cap. “How much?”

“How much you want?” Bubba tried to sound macho and confident, but inside he was Jell-O.

“Five hundred,” Smudge said, studying Bubba carefully to see his reaction.

“I’ll raise it to a thousand,” Bubba said as his gut turned to ice.

“You on the map, good buddy? Or just mud flapping.”

“I got it in my pocket,” Bubba said.

Smudge shook his head. “That old hound of yours has treed a chicken on top of a chicken pen and a goat on top of a stump. Closest it got to a coon was treeing one on top of a telephone pole. She won’t go across water, just barks at it when she’s not hanging around your feet. Half Shell ain’t worth the lead to shoot her, Bubba.”