He stopped walking and looked in all directions. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten here. It was as though he’d awoken, standing on his feet, on these secluded tracks.

He had vague memories of opening his eyes and seeing stars hanging in the night. He remembered seeing the roofline of the empty train depot. But after that, he didn’t remember anything.

The night sky over the black trees was bright from the full moon. It gave enough light to see the blood that covered his clothes. And he felt the sticky warmth soaking through his shirt and on the back of his head. This scared him. He hated the sight of blood.

He kept walking. He stumbled forward, unseeing on his feet. He felt sleepy with confusion. But he forced himself awake by singing. His words came out more like drunk mumbles.

“Come to the church by the wildwood, oh, come to the church in the vale. No spot is so dear to my childhood as the little brown church in the vale.”

This made him laugh. There was nothing “dear” in his childhood. Nothing. In fact, his childhood had been one big, ugly mistake. There were no little brown churches, no wildwoods. There had only been dry prairies, dusty tents, hateful people. He felt bitterness come to the surface. Bitterness turned to hate.

He hated E. P. for hitting him. He hated Blake for leaving him. He hated Judy for ruining him. He hated his mother for abandoning him. He hated God for sitting on his thumbs and letting it all happen.

No. Actually, he hated the idea of God. He didn’t believe in the Old Man enough to hate him personally. He hated the lies people told about a big, phony creature in the sky. That’s what he hated. He thought of other songs to sing to keep himself awake.

“Frankie and Johnny were sweethearts, O Lordy, how they did love. Swore to be true to each other, true as the stars above. He was her man, he was doing her wrong.”

He laughed at this song. The laughter was not a natural kind, for there was nothing funny about the song. He remembered when his mother had taught it to him when he was a little boy. She marveled that he could remember every single word to it. All the verses. She taught him several songs. She taught him the song about the Titanic, about floating river trains, about building the railroad. He sang a few of these melodies to himself.

Coot finally reached a train yard. The large stock cars were lined up in the night like big wagons in a circle. He could hear the sounds of cattle coming from them. He wandered toward a light in the middle distance, glowing yellow and red. A flickering.