Vern brought a load of leaves into the barn and laid them in neat piles. The women came behind him, carrying leaves in their carts. They sang while they worked. It reminded Paul of his mother, who used to sing made-up songs when she worked cotton fields.

An elderly, dark-skinned woman came with a wheelbarrow. On her way, she was cut off by a screaming toddler with no pants on. The toddler’s name was Baker.

“Aaaaaahhhh!” said Baker, which represented every word he knew.

It had been a monumental day when Baker took his first steps. The whole farm knew about it.

“Careful,” said Paul to the screaming child.

“Baah aahh aahhhh,” said Baker.

“Watch out for people. You gonna run into someone.”

“Aaaah.” Then Baker paused and made a face. It was a serious face, accompanied by a few grunts.

“I got better things to do than be watching a young’un mess in his pants,” Paul said. He stabbed the fire from where he sat. “Go find your mama, Baker.”

“Aaaah baah aaaah.”

“Make sure you tell her you have a present for her.”

Baker ran out of the barn, a child on a mission.

Above Paul, the tobacco strings hung from the rafters like vampire bats. The smoke from Paul’s smoldering fire rose through the leaves, then out through the tin-metal chimney gap in the roof. Rows upon rows of leaves dried above the fire Paul was tending.

Paul’s job was one of the most important on the whole farm. If one spark escaped his curing fire, it would cost an entire harvest.

Only months earlier, a drying barn on the Harrison farm had burned to the ground. And after the fire, the Harrison tobacco had no place to be stored. Nearby farm owners bought Mister Harrison’s leaves below market price. It was highway robbery, but Paul couldn’t think of a man who deserved robbery more than wicked Mister Harrison.

Paul was older than the other workers—though there was one woman who was older than he was. Her name was Chula. Chula strung the wide leaves onto long poles, singing a rhythmic song. Her skin looked like rawhide. She only had three teeth in her smile.

The women sewed leaves onto long pine sticks. Then quick, lean young black men climbed the rafters and hung the pole skewers of leaves in the drying racks above the small fire. It was a glorified dance. Stringing. Singing. Climbing. Stringing. Singing. Climbing.

“Hey, Paul,” said Vern from a distance. His baritone voice interrupted Paul from a daze.

“Water, Paul,” said Vern. “Lou needs water, quick.” His voice was laced with anxiety, and Vern was never anxious.

“What?” said Paul.

“Lou needs water.”

Paul exited the barn. He saw Vern carrying the furry black-and-tan body in his arms. Vern walked through long rows of green, keeping the dog close to his chest.