The morning sun was glaring at Vern. He could hardly see in the early light. He spotted the woodpecker making all the noise on a nearby limb. The bird was dotted with black spots and was blood red at the corners of its mouth with long, straight tail feathers. It opened its mouth and let out a loud sound, then flew away. He watched it soar above the trees, catching flashes of its red in the daylight.

Louisville lurched forward in a clumsy run. She ran like a dog who was ten years younger than she was.

Vern followed, moving as fast as his big legs would let him. He lost sight of Louisville in the green. He paused every few moments to listen for her baying, but none came.

So Vern stood in one place, waiting for a sound, cursing beneath his breath at his bad sense of hearing. He waited for nearly nineteen whole choruses of “Keep on the Sunny Side,” watching the creek water before him move in strange patterns. He wanted to call for Lou, but that would’ve confused the dog. Besides, it didn’t work that way. During a hunt, the dog calls you.

Then came howling.

He followed the sound. He saw something in the distance. Something big. A white square under the limbs of fat trees. Louisville was facing the drop cloth slung over a low branch. It was a tent—the kind hobos used. Louisville howled louder when she saw Vern approaching.

He was moving slow, carrying a heavy pine branch he’d found, balancing it on his shoulder like a slugger. He didn’t know what or who he was approaching. The last thing he wanted was to find unfriendly drifters who didn’t care for his color.

He called out to them. “Hello!”

There was no answer.

“Anybody there?” said Vern. “We friendly.”

No response.

“I’m friendly,” Vern said again. “Ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

When he neared the tent, Louisville was walking so close beside him she almost knocked him over. And then he saw it. The noise was coming from a little mouth.

Louisville wandered toward the child. She pressed her nose against the tiny white thing that was squirming in a bed of pine needles. The baby’s mop of orange hair was thick and messy. Its hands were outstretched. The child looked just like the sweet little Jesus Boy himself.

“Good girl, Lou,” said Vern. “Good girl.”

Three
Marigold the Magnificent

She wasn’t stealing. Or maybe she was. Marigold wasn’t sure if this was, in fact, thievery, since this was her first time stealing. She’d never realized stealing was an actual skill until now. She had no idea it would be so difficult to behave naturally.