Vern stood. He added wood to the smoldering firepit. He stabbed it with a stick until smoke drifted upward like fog, looking for a place to collect itself beneath the stars. He listened to the preacher’s words and wondered how a man could talk that fast without taking any breaths. He had to think long and hard about every word he said. How could one person speak a new word every second without even stopping to wonder if it was the right word?

Paul slapped the back of his neck. “That mosquito was as big as a Ford,” he said, inspecting his hand in the firelight. “Sucker almost paralyzed me.”

Vern repositioned slabs of pork on the wire fence he’d stolen from a nearby farm. He gave the hog carcass a final rub, then slapped it. He always slapped a roasting hog before he cooked it—it was custom. His daddy had slapped carcasses, and so would he. Vern transferred another shovel of coals to the pit. He moved embers around until the pit was burning yellow. The wood popped, making sparks fly upward.

The bottle dropped. The baby was waving her hands in all directions, fussy in Paul’s arms. Paul could hardly hold her still.

“What gives?” said Paul. “I thought babies was supposed to sleep all the time.”

“Maybe she can’t sleep ’cause she miss her mama,” said Vern.

Paul gave her to Vern. The baby stopped crying when she looked at him. “Everybody need a mama,” said Vern.

“I guess that makes you the mama, then.”

“Reckon we oughta name her? I mean, a real name, something proper. I was thinking about naming her Verna. Or Vernlyn.”

“Vernlyn? You’re a narcissist.”

“No, I’m Baptist.”

Paul slapped his cheek. Then his forearm. Then his neck. “How about Paulette, or Pauline, or Paula?”

“Them ugly names.”

The baby observed Vern with a serious face. She seemed to be concentrating very hard.

“Well, she ain’t no Vernlyn,” said Paul. “I can tell you that much.”

The baby grunted and filled the air all at once. The smell was akin to something that had been passed through the system of a dying possum.

Vern pressed her against his chest. He kissed her red hair. He kept his nose against her smooth skin. Then he looked at the moon. So far away. He felt the heaviness of the baby against him.

“Where’s your mama?” whispered Vern, looking at the moon. “Where that poor woman run off to?”

The baby looked upward at the sky. She reached her hand toward the moon. Then gave up and closed her eyes. She fell asleep in only a few seconds.