“That poor old dog,” he said. “He couldn’t help it if he were mad. I looked him right in the eye. He weren’t hating us. He was suffering. How could God let it be?”

It was not in my nature to chide him for questioning God’s purposes, as Aunt Becka might have done, so I said nothing. He rubbed the back of my hand with the tips of his fingers.

“I was scairt,” he said. “Hit was like if I turned my back, he’d be on me right then. But if I kept a-staring at him, I might see where he hurt. I didn’t want him kilt.”

“Florrie says you got a tender heart.”

He sighed. “Florrie is good to me. I wisht I could stay here all the time.”

We watched the river. Mosquitoes teased the surface of the shallows and minners flicked back and forth, chased by their shadows. Albion tore open a milkweed pod and scattered the soft white insides. Some of the seeds were borne away on the water. Others flew on the wind like pale fairies and settled in the brake to take root.

In October, Farrie Whitt called for a corn shucking. Already the women of Scary and Grapevine were putting up their fruit, vegetables, and apple butter. Now the corn would be shucked and stored for the animals and for grinding into yellow meal. In November the hogs would be killed, strung up by their hind legs and slit down the belly, the bloody carcasses festive against the gray mountainsides. The slabs of meat would be salted and hung to smoke, and the winter could be faced with security.

Of all the shuckings, I liked Farrie Whitt’s the best because he lived at the head of Scary Creek and so the journey was longer and more adventurous. We set out in the wagon just after noon. Halfway up Scary, shadow swallowed the sunlight. Here the mountains closed in and smelled strong and damp, like a wet animal. At the head of the holler, they gave way grudgingly, offering Farrie’s family their bit of earth. Until then, for the last mile and a half, there was no bottom land, only the creek and the rutted road twisting side by side, finally merging into one. The sun did not touch this place save when it stood directly overhead, and in winter the ice grew thick on the rocks even during the thaws. This was my favorite part of Scary. I turned on my belly when the wagon rode the creek and watched the churning water through the cracks between the floorboards. The mountains hovered close and sheltering, like a quilt upon my back.