He considered, “Eat dust, pilgrim.” That was in one of his novels too. But he didn’t fully know what pilgrims were and what they were doing in westerns, and it was important to use words he understood.

After much deliberation, Pete settled on the line, “Who’s laughing now?” It was perfect. A variation on something he’d read, which had originally gone, “Who’s got the last laugh now, Jeremiah?” But the simple twist of words made it shorter and therefore more piercing. It was firm, but with a little lightness to it. And it was appropriate for your everyday, basic heroic shooting. He’d seen enough picture show westerns to know that bad guys always laughed too much.

“Doggie!” said Pete’s sister. “Can we pet the doggie?”

Pete’s mother said nothing. She was just as unsure of these men. And this made Pete even more on edge. He gripped his pistol a little tighter. He waited for the gray-haired man to laugh for no good reason. Just one chuckle, that was all he needed.

But the old man made no laughs, he just kept talking.

“Y’all must be hungry,” the man said.

It was a strange thing to say, Pete thought. Maybe he would feed them before he tried to chop off their heads.

“And you’re in luck,” the old man went on. “Vern just cooked a whole hog.”

Pete glanced toward the black man who had walked away and now stood near a firepit. The big man was feeding a baby.

“No, thank you,” Pete’s mother answered. “We don’t need anything.”

She was lying. Their last meal had been two nights ago, in a car camp outside Lawrenceville. Pete had wandered through the lines of cars, digging through garbage after people had gone to bed. He’d found a leftover chicken carcass and a bag of rotted cabbage. His mother made soup out of it.

“We don’t want no food,” said Pete’s mother.

Pete’s stomach made a noise right after she said it.

The man stooped low and touched the hub of the old automobile. The old man spit on his finger, and when he touched the center of the hub, it made a hissing noise.

“See that?” the old man said. “This thing’s red hot, Tex. The bearings need regreasing or they’ll fall apart beneath you.”

Pete’s attention was diverted. His baby sister had climbed out of the car and was petting the black-and-tan dog and laughing. She was carefree, without a single fear in this world. Lucky girl.

Pete ignored the old man, got out of the car, and followed after his sister. He moved with caution, using as much authority as he could muster, keeping his legs wide. His gun was shoved in his belt, tugging his pants down below his haunches.

“Reese,” Pete said in a low voice. “Get back here.”