Blake stepped over E. P. until he was straddling the man in the dirt. He squeezed the big man’s jaw until the skin bunched up around E. P.’s fleshy cheeks. Blake said, “I been chewing cheap cigars and reusing coffee grounds for ten years, and you got twenty-seven hundred hoarded away, you greedy little cuss . . .”

E. P. swung his limp arms at Blake. “My money. Gimme that box.”

Blake used the box to tap E. P. on the forehead. “None of this is yours. It belongs to your son and his mama. I dare you to stop me, you big cheat.”

But the big man was not able to sit upright. He only closed his eyes and laughed himself to sleep. “I’ll kill you,” E. P. mumbled.

It took Coot and Blake twenty minutes to pack their things and load it all into E. P.’s mammoth Hudson. Blake slid into the driver’s seat, started the car after a few attempts. The engine roared to life and the tires crackled on the dust and gravel.

Coot sat on the passenger side, watching the large tent get smaller in the distance. The Hudson sailed into the dark, kicking clouds of dust behind it.

Blake lit a fresh cigar with a match. The coal on the end of the cigar glowed orange and filled the car with fragrant smoke that Coot could almost taste. Blake took one puff and exhaled at the windshield with a gentle moan.

“First new cigar I’ve had in four years,” Blake said, removing it from his mouth to admire it. “Only wish your mama were here with us.”

Coot leaned against the seat and stared into the distance. He watched prairie land fly past the windows in the night. “I miss her.”

“She’s watching over you right now, Coot.” Blake ruffled Coot’s hair. “You can bet your hind parts she is.”

Seventeen
Old Tires

Morning came with the sounds of birds. Vern lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the early sky. The colors were bright. It looked like someone had smudged gold and orange paint all over the clouds. He sat straight and felt the cords of his back tighten. He winced. Arthritis, bursitis, and all-around morning grumpiness were getting to him. Getting older was a pain in the—well, everything.

Vern saw Paul standing beside the truck, baby against his chest. He was feeding her from a glass bottle.

“You boil that bottle first?” asked Vern. “Lady at the store said you had to boil the bottles and teats first.”

“’Course I boiled them. I’ve been boiling them all morning.”

“You make sure the milk ain’t too hot?”

“You’re getting as skittish as an old woman.”

Vern stretched, then squinted. In the distance he could see a tiny cloud of dust rising into the morning sky. A grinding sound came with the dust. The sound got louder the closer the cloud of dust came.