Blake jumped. His lanky body sailed through the air, his arms spread outward. He landed feetfirst and heard something in his knee pop. It felt like someone had stabbed a hot knife into the joint. He tumbled on the grass. His chin was in the dirt, his hind parts over his head. He leapt from the ground and hobbled toward the car like a one-legged ostrich. He ignored the scattered clothes on the lawn and flung the door open. He crawled into the car, slammed the door, and shouted, “Drive! Drive! Drive!”

The car shot forward. Coot held the wheel, aiming the vehicle at the gravel road. The engine of the Hudson sounded like it was going to explode. The car weaved left, then right, then left, then right. Back and forth. Side to side. It was enough to make Blake nauseous.

“Hold ’er steady,” said Blake. “You’re gonna make me puke.”

“I told you I can’t drive!”

“Just keep ’er straight.”

“I can’t hold the wheel still!”

Blake gripped the wheel and righted the vehicle. “Just push your foot on the gas, boy!”

Then Blake remembered the money. A pang of fear shot through him. He couldn’t remember if he’d taken it inside the farmhouse with him or not. He fumbled through the glove box contents until he found the leather-bound Bible with the hollowed-out square in the center. He opened it and saw the folded bills.

“Glory be,” said Blake. “At least they didn’t get this.”

“You okay, Blake?”

Blake leaned backward in the seat. His knee felt broken. His feet and ankles were sprained. His back hurt from tumbling on the unforgiving ground. His chin was bruised. He’d bitten his tongue and blood was all over his lips. His shoulders and wrists hurt from breaking his fall.

He touched his neck. It was unharmed.

“The good Lord answers prayer,” said Blake.

Twenty-One
Sugar and Candy

A few customers had been forming a small line at the tailgate of Paul’s truck all morning. Paul served them by packing handfuls of warm pork into a tin coffee mug, then turning the mug upside down onto a sheet of newspaper. Behind him, Eulah and her children were shredding bits of pork from the bone. Paul had to remind the children twice not to lick their greasy fingers whenever paying customers were nearby.

A man with a sweat-stained fedora asked for three pounds. Paul placed three pork cylinders in the center of the newsprint before wrapping them and handing the bundle to the man.

“That’ll be thirty cents,” Paul said.

The man scowled. “Thirty cents is highway robbery.”

Paul didn’t answer. He only took the man’s money and God-blessed him.

“Hey,” the man said. “Don’t I get any barbecue sauce with that?”

“Sauce is extra.”

“How much extra?”

“Nine cents.”

“Just for sauce?”

“No, sir, not just for sauce. For the best sauce you’ve ever had.”