“Are you a prostitute, ma’am?” another added. “And if so, how long have you been involved in such illegal activities?”

“Can you talk to the dead, miss?”

“Have you ever, or would you ever, or have you ever considered bringing small creatures back to life?”

“Do you consider yourself a humanitarian?”

“Are you in any way affiliated with the Communist Party?”

“Did you like the last Cary Grant picture?”

Coot removed his boot and flung it through the bars at the men. The heel of the boot hit one man square in the face. Coot couldn’t remember ever feeling such satisfaction with himself.

But before Coot could work his other boot off, the door to the jailhouse opened and the sheriff walked in.

The sheriff’s face was inflamed and his eyes were big. He stepped toward one man, removed the camera from his hands, opened the back compartment, and strung the guts out. Then he grabbed the man by the shoulders and shoved him out the open door. The other men scurried behind him, holding cameras high above their heads.

“Gimme those cameras!” shouted the sheriff, who darted after them.

Coot could hear everyone’s footsteps reverberating in the hall, clomping down the staircase. Coot leapt onto his bed and looked out the window again. He saw the men in suits outrun the sheriff, leap into a car, and speed off, leaving the sheriff standing in the street holding his hat.

“Are you okay?” Coot said to Marigold. “Did they hurt you?”

“No,” said Marigold.

“They’re like wolves.”

“They stink too,” said Joseph. “Like cologne.”

“I don’t know how you could sleep through all that,” said Coot.

“I wasn’t,” said Marigold. “I was only pretend sleeping.”

Eighty-Two
Clippings

When they entered Mobile, Ruth was too busy staring at the mansions that lined the streets to pay attention to the folded paper map in her hands. The iron railings and ornate houses were overwhelming. They drove across the cobblestones, and the vibration nearly rattled the old truck apart. Stringbean was about to have a nervous breakdown in the back seat from all the rattling.

Ruth pointed out the window. “Look at that house, that one’s so pretty!”

Pete couldn’t answer her; there were too many cars driving beside him, around him, and before him. There hadn’t been this many cars the last time he visited. It was as though he were stuck in a deadly river of automobiles from which there was no escape. One vehicle honked its horn. He almost lost control of the wheel and his bladder at the same time.

“Look at that house!” Ruth yelled. “It’s huge!”

They rolled across railroad tracks. The bumps taxed the axle of his truck. Stringbean was panting. Drool fell from her jowls. Pete knew Stringbean was just as nervous as he was.

“Look at this city,” said Ruth, pointing out the back window. “It’s lovely. It just goes on and on.”