Coot stared at the headlights of the cars that were following them. The car directly behind the trailer was E. P.’s Hudson—a vehicle with chrome fenders and hand-painted letters on the door that read E. P. Willard’s Gospel Troop.

Blake pulled the canvas flap closed.

“Gotta keep it shut,” said Blake. “You’ll let the dust in.”

“But there ain’t no dust tonight.”

“Well, I don’t want it open in case there is.”

He pressed a slab of beef over Coot’s neck. “How’s that feeling?”

Coot shrugged. It hurt to shrug.

Coot stared at the baseball cards he’d retrieved from the dirt. He admired the stoic faces in the glow of the lantern light. They looked like fearless soldiers . . . almost. Coot was the exact opposite. He was not fearless. Coot didn’t know how to stand up for himself. He was quiet and soft-spoken when he wasn’t onstage preaching. He wanted to be like one of the men on the cards.

The baseball players all had strong nicknames. Not dumb names like Coot, a name that was short for an even dumber name: Cooter. Who names their kid Cooter? Who would ever take him seriously with a name that sounded like an inappropriate body part?

Ballplayers had real nicknames like “Big Jim” or “Little General” or “Georgia Lightning” or “Old Hoss.” Coot wondered what it would feel like for someone to call him “Old Hoss.” Now that was a name that didn’t sound like a dangling participle on the human body.

For a moment he tried on that name for size. “Old Hoss,” he said aloud. The name seemed a little big for him, he thought. But it did make him feel taller. A boy could get used to being an Old Hoss instead of a Cooter.

Coot knew that E. P. hadn’t meant for the buckle to hit his neck like it did. It was an accident. But when the metal struck, it felt like someone had stabbed him. When the beating was over, Coot had touched his neck expecting blood. But there was no blood. Only a burning neck.

When Blake found Coot crying, he stormed after E. P. He removed his own belt and flung it at E. P. like a whip, screaming at him. He landed several good licks before E. P. tackled the old man. The choir stood outside E. P.’s tent watching Blake blow a gasket. Blake was wiry but tough. His thick handlebar mustache was bigger than he was, and his limbs were lanky. He’d done horse tricks and lasso tricks in a traveling Wild West show before he took up revival work. And he was fast.