I say nothing. Then after a few seconds she speaks sternly. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lucy, of course you know, I know, we both know that that shiny piece of car belongs to Balboa Littlefield. He’s also got a powder-blue Mercedes-Benz just like that one.”

Now it’s my turn to be perturbed. “That son of a bitch has been making money for twenty years dealing drugs to everyone in this town. Nothing ever changes here,” I say. I’m shelling butter beans as fast and angrily as I can.

“Nothing nobody can do about it, Lucy. He’s considered to be an upright citizen here in Walkers Pasture. There’s even talk that they’re going to name that playground with the kiddie pool sprinkler after the wealthy Mr. Littlefield.”

“It makes my blood boil,” I say. “They’d be better off naming it after the devil himself.”

“They just can’t stop Balboa. He pays off the cops. He pays off the judges in Wheeling. He gives out packets of marijuana like they were pumpkin seeds.”

My turn again. “And Balboa Littlefield is the reason you’ve got a son inside, age thirty-two, shaking and sweating, unemployed and weighing less than The Duke, and, I dunno, useless, awful, stinking. I’ve run out of words.”

“That’s a first,” Mom says.

I’m not amused.

Well, actually I am, but I’m not about to laugh.

Then she adds seriously, “Listen. It’s not entirely Balboa Littlefield’s fault. It’s a problem only because weak folks like Cabot—”

“Oh, please, Mom. Don’t. Just don’t.”

And she stops. At least for a few seconds.

Born and raised here, she has lived on hope and prayer all her life. She has watched the opioid epidemic grow bigger and uglier every month of every year. My brother is just one of so many folks in Walkers Pasture who chew OxyContin like breath mints. Mom knows all this, but she still has nothing but hope and prayer.

My mother kneels on the floor and begins petting The Duke. Then she talks to him. This isn’t the first time she’s used this dog-and-lady trick.