Judy Bronson came near the clot of young men where Coot was standing. Her presence made Coot nearly urinate on himself and forget how to say his name.

“Ain’t got music like this in Columbus,” said Judy, who stood close enough to Coot that he could smell her perfume. “This here’s a real string band.”

Coot nodded. He’d meant to say, “How are you doing tonight, Judy?” or “Isn’t it stunning weather on this fine summer’s eve?” But what came out of his mouth was a collection of sounds with no intelligible meaning.

Judy looked at him with furrowed brows. She studied his face and said, “You’re a funny one, ain’t you?”

He couldn’t get any words out. Behold the Great Preacher of the Plains. Big ears. Long legs. Classification: 4-F. And completely tongue-tied.

William Oswalt suddenly appeared before Judy. The young man wore an officer’s uniform with a gold emblem on his cap. He asked if she wanted to dance. William was built like a spruce, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. The uniform made him look like a hero even though his feet hadn’t touched foreign soil yet.

Judy handed her drink to Coot. And she was gone.

“How do you like that?” said Aaron. “Stupid Will can have anyone he wants here tonight, and he took Judy.”

Coot didn’t answer. He only stood watching.

“Am I as tall as William?” asked Billy. “He’s not that much taller than me, is he?”

Aaron laughed. “Would you quit worrying about how tall you are?”

“I think I’m as tall as he is,” said Billy.

“He’s a whole foot taller than you, shrimp.”

Will was the son of the wealthiest mill owner in south Alabama. The Oswalt Mill had been the largest mill for too many decades to count. Will’s father also raised beef and dairy cows on twenty-five hundred acres. He owned more land than anyone in the state almost. The newspapers called the Oswalts the Kings of Alabama. Kings. With a capital K. And no necktie, no matter how green, could compete with that.

Coot loosened his necktie and left the clot of young men.

“Hey, Preacher,” said Aaron. “Where’re you going?”

“Don’t know,” said Coot. “Anywhere else.”

“He’s probably going to listen to J. Wilbur Chaplain,” said another boy.

“Shut up,” said Aaron.

“Hey, Preacher,” said one man in a uniform. “Don’t forget to say your prayers.”

Coot wandered into the darkness and hitched his thumbs in his pockets. He had gone from feeling low, to high, to low again. That’s how love worked, he guessed.