After their brief fight, Blake pinned E. P. on the ground and forced the big man to offer a grand apology in front of everyone. And E. P. did just that. He even worked up tears. Coot forgave him publicly, but Coot knew it was only theatrics.

The lantern swung in the dark and made Coot dizzy.

“Feeling any better?” asked Blake.

Coot wasn’t feeling better. He felt like someone had lit a campfire on his neck.

“Yeah,” said Coot. “I feel much better.”

“You sure?” said Blake, placing an unlit cigar in his mouth. “You ain’t just telling me what I wanna hear? You always tell me what I wanna hear.”

“No. I’m better.”

“You are not. I can tell.”

“No. I’m fine, Blake. I swear.”

Blake let out a laugh. Then he chewed on his cigar so hard, it started to splinter in his mouth. “You’re a liar.”

“Why don’t you never light them cigars?” asked Coot.

“Cost too much to light ’em, and in case you ain’t noticed, we’s poor.”

Blake removed the meat from Coot’s neck. He inspected the patch of skin and touched it gently. “Is the pain right here?” asked Blake.

“To the left a little.”

“E. P. deserves to rot in a shallow grave.”

“He didn’t mean for the buckle to hit me.”

“Well, ain’t he the humanitarian of the year?”

Blake flipped the meat so the cool side rested on Coot’s neck. The coolness felt good but did little to ease the burn.

Coot stared at the cards and imagined his own face beneath the ball caps the men wore. He would’ve made a good ballplayer. If God were real—and he wasn’t sure about this—he wished he would’ve seen fit to make him a ballplayer instead of a Cooter.

“Blake, you think we can go to another baseball game if we are ever in Wichita again?”

Blake removed the crushed cigar from his mouth and spit out a few flakes. Then he touched Coot’s cheek. “Got me another idea. When we get to Wichita, me and you’s gonna part ways with old E. P.”

Coot said nothing.

He could hardly believe what he’d just heard. He’d been with E. P. since birth. His mother had been E. P.’s church organist. All he’d ever known was E. P. Willard’s Gospel Troop. The thought of leaving E. P. was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

“Leave?” said Coot. “Where would we go?”

“Far away from that man.”

“But he’s just upset. He’ll get over it and things will be back to normal.”

“I heard your mother say the same thing too many times, Coot. He shoulda married her, you know . . .” Blake stopped talking.