“You all, this here is Rondal Lloyd,” Ben said. “He’s from West Virginia.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Flora stuck out her hand.

Aunt Becka set an extra chair between her and Luke. “You’re welcome,” she said.

The children watched him expectantly while his eyes roamed the table. Except for fried bacon and hunks of cornbread, everything was fresh from the garden—corn on the cob, new potatoes, green beans, kale, slices of red tomato as thick as slabs of meat.

“Yall know how to eat,” Rondal said. He cut a slice of tomato slowly with his fork, but he chewed fast.

“Mister, that there sure is a funny hat,” Luke said.

“They dont see nothing but wide brims,” I explained.

Rondal pulled the cap from his pocket and set it on Luke’s head, tugged on the bill so it came down over Luke’s eyes. Luke giggled and glanced at Aunt Becka. Aunt Becka didn’t even allow hats in the house, much less at the supper table. But she didn’t say anything.

“Yall know that banjer I got up at the Aunt Jane Place?” I said. “That there is Mister Lloyd’s banjer. Maybe if I fetch it after supper, he’ll pick for us.”

“I dont care to sing for my supper,” Rondal said.

“Do you know our Aunt Carrie?” Jane asked.

“Sure I do. I knowed her longer than you have.”

“No you aint. I knowed her all my life.”

“That so?” He winked at her. “Reckon you got me beat then.”

Ben pushed back his plate and propped his elbows on the table. “Where’d you come from?”

“Oh, lordy, I been all around Henry’s barn. Took the train from Charleston over through Huntington and up to Louisa, walked to Inez, rode a mule for a feller I know into Shelby, sold it and sent him the money, then walked all the way up here.”

“Just to pick up a banjer,” I said sweetly.

“That’s right.” He stopped eating and looked at me. “Hit’s a special banjer. My Uncle Dillon made it for me when I was just a baby like that one there.” He pointed at Rachel, in Flora’s arms.

“You got any stories to tell?” Jane asked. “Lots of strangers that come through tells us stories.”

“They been spoiled,” I said apologetically. “They come to expect it. You dont have to.”

“That’s all right. I reckon I might come up with a story. I could tell one about when I was an organizer out in Colorado.”

I looked at Ben, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“What’s an organizer?” Luke asked.

“That’s somebody that gits other folks doing things together. Like when you and your buddies is outside and one says ‘Let’s go pick berries’ and figures out where to git the berries and how many buckets to take. That there is an organizer.