She was just flirting. He downshifted to second gear. She’s bored and likes guys in Jeeps. Nothing to worry about.

Third gear and dust started flying. It hadn’t rained in a week and a half and nothing was tamping down the grit. The handle of the plastic bag whipped out the absent door, and he reached down quickly to throw the bag in the back to keep it from blowing out. He wanted to pull over and tear open the magazine inside, but the trailer was just a quick left away on Ripper Road.

The beat-up and heavily leaning sign on the corner actually read “Lee Road,” but the Little Rock police never came out this far, and everyone drove it like Bristol. William tore around the corner.

As cotton on both sides of the dirt road rushed by, the Dr Pepper twelve-pack thumped around on the floorboard in the back. He’d have to let it settle before he cracked one open. If he stepped it up, he might beat Carlos and have a few minutes to read the speculation about where he was.

When the cotton briefly broke and the trailer came into view, he saw an old F-150 on the gravel driveway, hitched to a large trailer carrying two mowers. So much for beating Carlos.

At the Jeep’s approach, a Hispanic man, his already dark skin made leathery from constant sun exposure, slid out of the truck cab, a notebook in his hand. Carlos still did it old school: He liked to write down all their yards for the week and who was assigned to which address. He kept a special red pen for the people who hadn’t paid.

“Where you been Nick?” he said as William came to a stop.

“Got hung up at Uncle Steve’s.”

“Ticktock Nickie! Mrs. Goff wants you there at 6 a.m. tomorrow, and we’ve got a shit ton more after that to schedule.”

“Why don’t you take Goff and I’ll take the Lion’s Club?” William grabbed the soda and the bag.

“Because she doesn’t like Mexicanos!” Carlos grinned and then spit out his chew. “She wouldn’t even use us if that nice little Caucasian wasn’t part of the crew. She thinks you’re mute. Always gives extra tip for the white boy because she’s convinced you’re special needs. Why else would you mow lawns with a bunch of illegals?”

“I never see that tip.” William jangled his keys and opened the trailer door.

“These mowers don’t run on air, my man.” Carlos followed him in.

The window air-conditioner hummed as William headed straight for the fridge, sliding in the twelve-pack and tossing the chips and magazine into one of the cheap wood-paneled cabinets. Maybe Carlos will need to take a leak and give him a few seconds—