Vern stood straight and called down from the roof of the millhouse in the distance. “What’s Lou barking about?”

“How should I know?”

Vern was the tallest black man Paul had ever known. And from high up on the roof where he stood, he looked like a portrait of John Henry, only skinnier.

Below the millhouse, the truck door was open so Vern could listen to the radio. It was Wednesday. Vern always listened to radio preaching on Wednesdays. And he listened to it at a volume that was loud enough to affect the weather. The sounds of a hollering voice from the tinny speaker competed with the baying from Louisville’s throat. Her voice was as deep as that of a full-grown baritone man.

“Would you turn that radio off? Between that stupid preacher and Lou’s barking, I can’t hear nothing but hot air.”

“Oh, sorry, Paul. I’s sorry.”

“Quit your sorryin’, Vern. It’s a bad habit.”

Vern’s bare feet gripped the roof while he walked. His lanky frame crawled the edge like an acrobat. Paul watched him climb down, three rungs at a time. His sharp features made him look almost like a bronze statue. He lowered himself on the ladder and turned off the radio in the truck.

Vern stood beside Paul and cupped his ear. “What we listening for? Don’t hear nothing.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Paul. “You can’t hear nothing.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly. That dadgum radio’s made you deaf.”

There was the sound again. It cut through the humidity.

Louisville howled.

Paul tugged Louisville’s collar and said, “Okay, honey, I hear you.” She stopped howling.

Then he looked across the creek one more time, making his ears as big as he could, like a dog would do. When he was a boy, his father used to say Paul was part dog. In some ways, this was true. Paul felt something kindred with the canine. And he had proven this by squandering his life breeding and training tracking dogs. It started as a boyhood hobby, but soon he was trailing escaped prisoners and missing children. And squirrels, foxes, and coons.

“Keep laying ’em shingles,” yelled Paul. “I’d better go see what she’s making a fuss about.”

“You going into the woods alone?” Vern called back. “You’s too old.”

“Old?”

“Huh?” said Vern.

“I was askin’ who you was callin’ old,” Paul hollered.

Vern was already unfastening his toolbelt. “I told you I’ll do it. Let me go.”

“Now hold on, Vern. I ain’t some old man. I was walking them woods before you were even a sniffle in your pa’s nose.”

“Better let me go, Paul. I’s younger.”

“You ain’t that much younger.”

Vern was at least twenty-five years Paul’s junior.

“Something bad could happen to you out there, Paul. You could break a leg or somethin’.”

“Vern, you stay where you is. Now that’s an order.”