“Yeah, well. You don’t got to worry.”

“Why not?” he said, trying to draw Boo out, but blushing at the quaver in his voice.

“Because you’re his nephew.” As if that explained everything. “How’d he do it?”

Boo looked at him hard. “You want to get red-assed? I might be hung over but I’ll still spank the shit outta you.” Lincoln couldn’t breathe. “Some things you don’t need to know. Got it? Now go fetch him.”

Lincoln ran for the door. He was breathless by the time he reached the trailer.

Simon sat bent-kneed next to the fold-out card table. He was shirtless, the muscle of his forearms plainly visible as he shuffled and reshuffled a pack of cards. His shirt was spread over the other chair back above the overworked space heater.

Simon looked at Lincoln and smiled. He shuffled again. “This an eviction notice?”

Lincoln looked puzzled and Simon quickly riffled the cards as if to bury the uncertainty behind his words.

“Boo says he’s got coffee.”

“You gonna come in or stand out there all day? Knowing Boo, he’s got the shakes so bad it’ll take him three tries before he gets it right.”

Lincoln stepped through and pulled the thin door shut behind him. Simon gestured at the other chair.

“That door’s pretty thin,” said Lincoln, grasping at any topic.

“Better than no door. Better than none, which is what I had for the last three months.”

“They sent you back to prison?”

“Who told you that?”

“One-Two.”

“Ahhh,” said Simon. “One-Two. Well, he’s got his eye on everyone. Shoulda figured he’d find out.”

“What’d you do?”

“When?” asked Simon tensely.

“The second time.”

“Went shoppin for Xmas dinner. Tell you somethin, Lincoln. You ever go after geese, use a gun. Use a fuckin gun,” he repeated to himself. “And stand back a ways.” Lincoln nodded but couldn’t imagine hunting, couldn’t see when he’d go after geese.

Simon stood and threw the cards on the table. He reached behind Lincoln for his shirt and Lincoln winced, startled by the swiftness of Simon’s gestures, unsure of their intent. Simon shook his head.

“You don’t gotta be scared of me, for Christ’s sake.”

Lincoln didn’t know what to say. He was ashamed. He was scared.

“Nobody ever tells me nothin.”

“You don’t got to know everything. But know this,” he said bending down to eye level with Lincoln, “you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m the least of your worries.” He stood, thinking that Lincoln was about ready to cry. “So,” he said lightly, “how about that coffee?”

With Simon gone, either dead or lost to him, Lincoln goes out to the trailer with his cousins. The cards are still there. They play. They crib and play gin and Lincoln shuffles, trying on Simon’s gestures, his finger-flourishes and card-tapping. They steal Boo’s beer and think themselves sneaky, professional. They are unaware that Boo knows about their drinking, that he lets them steal a few cans here and there. His is a tough wisdom: Let them think they’re drunk. Let them have a few brews instead of perfume, or mouthwash, or Nyquil. But Betty’s continual vigilance drives them from the enclosure of Boo’s house and the rickety trailer to the sandy streets, to the nests of older kids with rum and vodka. With speed. To more dangerous terrain.