“How should I know? Some preacher who’s supposed to get us whipped up and used to shouting.”

“Revival’s fixing to hit Alabama,” said Army.

“Glory,” said another man.

Coot had remained silent all day. This was familiar work. Coot had seen more tents erected than any man in the field. He tugged ropes, drove stakes into the ground, cinched canvases tight, and wrapped lines around large wood poles. By the time the sun was beginning to settle above the trees, the monstrous tent stood like a religious monument. And something about this sight warmed Coot from the inside. The familiarity of it—no matter how much he might have hated it—was still familiar. And familiar things carried warmth.

The men passed water jugs among themselves in the sweltering sun. Their torsos were sunburned, and their faces were soiled.

Then cars arrived in the peanut field. Large Fords came rolling through the dirt field like a wagon train. The lead car was bright red with white text painted on the driver’s door. The familiarity of it was almost too much for Coot to bear.

Coot inspected the door of one car, which read Reverend E. P. Willard.

Coot almost lost his balance. He felt his stomach churn.

The cars rolled to a stop. The men who stepped out of the vehicles wore suits and boater hats. One of them was a big man wearing a white fedora. He had a red complexion, silver hair, and a familiar face. Coot felt his blood freeze solid.

The big man introduced himself and pumped hands with the workmen. He offered a “God bless you, son” to each one of them. His sincerity was overwhelming.

The men all thanked the big man and removed their hats when he came to them. When he got to Coot, the man shot his hand out and glanced at Coot with hard eyes. Coot ducked his head. The years had been unkind to the old man. And this made Coot feel glad somehow.

“Name’s Reverend Willard,” said the man. “But you can call me E. P.”

Coot almost lost himself in the moment. He couldn’t find his voice. He could only look at the man’s shoes. They were brown leather with white spats and black buttons. Coot remembered polishing E. P.’s shoes for hours on end, sometimes staying up until the wee hours because E. P. wanted them done right.

He could remember the way the big man used to hit his mother when he’d had too much to drink. He could remember the long nights when Coot would lie beside his battered mother in bed and she would insist to Coot that E. P. wasn’t a bad man but that he’d saved them. Bitterness rose in him.

“Robert,” said Coot. “Name’s Robert Allen, sir.”

The big man held his eyes on Coot for a few moments.