“But Mom,” I said. “There was this toad . . .”

Mom shushed me.

“It ain’t worth arguing about, Buddy,” she said. “Not now. But rest assured, you and me are going to have us a talk tomorrow, and I’m afraid you won’t like what you’re going to hear.”

I’d be a liar if I said that didn’t hurt. In fact, it hurt so bad I knew there was no way I could stay at home any longer, not the way I always wrecked things, not how hard I made Mom’s life. It hurt me to leave, especially on my birthday, but I also knew I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

And so what? Life was one big stretch of hurts until your luck turned, until that long golden flip of the coin landed heads up for once. Now, my journey was nearly over. After a whole week of plugging along on that dusty old trail, I was getting close. I had passed through the woods, come into open land. I was in the Riverlands now, where last I heard Pop was living. The hills got hillier and the valleys grew steeper. The road was less crowded, and strange-looking men wandered about, gruff and unshaven. Everything started to smell like fish.

I was headed to Pop’s house, and maybe I was the happiest kid in the whole world.

2

IT TOOK A FULL DAY of wandering around and asking, since I didn’t exactly know where Pop lived anymore. Every time I’d come across a person I’d ask them if they knew the current residence of David Josiah Pennington, and I rarely got much of a satisfactory response. Either they’d mutter that they’d never heard of the man, or else they’d look scared and hightail it away from me. One plump lady with a toddler crossed herself three times and walked over to the other side of the road as soon as I said his name. Eventually I found a seedy-looking old man tottering around his front yard, his door left wide open.

“Can I help you, sir?” I asked.

“Sure, sure,” said the man, swaying a little. “How’s about you draw an old man a cup of water from that well over yonder, how’s about it?”

The well was a regular-looking brick thing dug into the man’s front yard. That seemed easy enough. When I handed the man the water cup he slurped it all up and motioned for another. It took three before he was satisfied.

He let out a big burp and made to shake my hand.

“Rodney Cleaver,” he said. “And who the heck are you?”

“I’m Buddy Pennington,” I said. “David Josiah Pennington’s son.”

The old man squinted and cast a crooked smile at me. “Davey Boy’s boy, you say?” I nodded. “Didn’t know he had one. Well, that figures, don’t it?” The man gestured down the road. “He lives down yonder, about a mile, steady as she goes. Once you get to that big oak tree that looks like it’s about to keel over and die, take the trail on your left. Can’t miss it.”