Coot felt a pang in his gut when E. P. searched through the contents of the burlap bag. Finally he closed the sack and frowned. He flung it against the wall. He stepped toward Coot and let his face contort with hatred. He flicked Coot’s nose and said, “I’m pretty disappointed in you, Coot. I raised you better ’n this.”

“You didn’t raise me,” said Coot.

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I did more than just raise you. I gave you life, you wretched boy.”

Coot felt his heart beating in his ears. “You’re a liar.”

“Well, now, you have a point,” said E. P. with a smirk. “But I’m also your pa.”

“You’re nothing.”

“Your mama told me you was mine the night she had you. Told me you were my responsibility. I didn’t believe her, and I never believed her. Until now.”

The man walked toward the small mirror hanging above the washbasin. He unlatched it from the hinges and brought it to Coot.

“See that?” said E. P. “Same hair, bones, eyes. You’re more mine than you were hers.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Believe me, I ain’t any happier about it than you are.” He laughed. “But don’t think just ’cause you’re kin means you get special privileges, son. You’re still a little thief.”

Coot felt a blow behind his head. He hit the ground. He felt his eyes get heavy beneath the weight of unconsciousness.

The large man squatted to get a better look at Coot. He brought his eyes even with Coot’s. “You’re a thief, just like your old man is.”

He felt another blow to his head, then Coot’s world went black.

Sixty-Seven
In Care of Paul Foldger

He was in Miss Warner’s bed. That’s where he was. He knew by the wallpaper on the walls. The flowers with little ivy around them. But it took a few moments to realize who he was. His brain was moving slow. Very. Slow. One thought would come to him, but before he understood that thought, another one took its place. And the two thoughts were unrelated. He was confused and in pain. He felt like his head was going to explode.

Ruth and Miss Warner fed him broth. He saw them do it but could not understand what he was seeing and was unaware that he was eating at all until he felt hot liquid run down his chin. And it made him laugh. When he did, he spit broth all over himself.

He opened his mouth to speak and felt his diaphragm tense. He meant to say, “I’m a good-for-nothing slob, ain’t I?” to break the tension in the room. But all he could get out were unintelligible moans.

So he closed his mouth. He was a prisoner in his own body.