“You could say I do all the worrying for the outfit.”

They listened to the radio again. It was preaching. A voice screaming so loud, the speaker sounded like it was going to crack. The deputy turned it up. And listened. He nodded from time to time and said, “Amen,” in earnest.

“My name’s Marigold,” she said.

“I know,” said the young man. “You told me last night.”

“Oh.”

“I’m Coot.”

“Coot? That’s your real name?”

“Short for Cooter.”

“Is that a nickname for something?”

“Cooter-tastic.”

She laughed.

The deputy turned the volume of the radio louder to drown out their conversation.

“You don’t have to blow our eardrums,” said Coot. “We got rights, you know.”

Marigold and Coot listened to the radio show. The preaching filled the room, and they endured the guard’s amens, hallelujahs, and moderate bouts of clapping. When the broadcast ended, an announcer’s voice blared loud enough to blow the roof off the courthouse.

“This week in Saraland, folks, come see America’s preacher, J. Wilbur Chaplain, bringing God’s Holy Word, Friday, Saturday, and all day Sunday. See the healings and the miracles and the salvations . . .”

Marigold listened with great curiosity.

“And may God’s people pray that revival hits our land, folks, in our desperate hour of need . . .”

Then the announcer began to pray. The deputy bowed his head, removed his hat, and folded his hands.

The deputy’s prayer was interrupted by the sheriff walking through the front door of the courthouse. The officer was carrying a large basket draped with a red-and-white-checkered cloth. “Good grief, Dip,” said the sheriff. “You’re about to bust the glass in here with that radio. Turn that thing down.”

The deputy rose to his feet, saluted, then clicked the radio off.

“You don’t have to salute me, Dip,” said the sheriff. “This ain’t the military, and I’m your first cousin.”

“Yessir,” said the deputy.

As soon as the sheriff set down the basket, the deputy poked his hands into it and removed a biscuit. He nearly swallowed the thing whole. Then he ate two more.

“Dip,” said the sheriff, “there ain’t but five biscuits in the basket, you hog.”

The deputy wiped his mouth and held out the mutilated remains of his biscuit.

He swallowed. “You want the rest, Sheriff?”

“No,” said the sheriff. “Your spit’s all over it now, and I don’t wanna catch your stupid.” He pressed the brim of his hat upward, then walked to the big man’s cell. He kicked the bars with his boot. A clanging noise filled the jailhouse.

The big man didn’t move. The sheriff kicked the cell door so hard it sounded like gunfire. “Get up, Mister Willard,” said the sheriff. “Right now.”

The big man stirred but wouldn’t acknowledge the sheriff.