Softly and discreetly John chews his tobacco plug, gently flexing his jaw, a bit of juice showing on his teeth, and then spits sidelong into the gutter. Could’ve figured that out myself, he says, adjusting the brim of his hat with two fingers. The Lord don’t have a need of us to go digging the dead out of the soil any more than the living should be climbing down into the dirt. He speaks with a deliberation that seems weighted by the illogic of his thoughts. His thoughts are heavy with faith. The leadenness of believing so fully in something like a god, something you can’t see or taste or touch. Yeah, right, Thompson says, cutting him off. Well, I guess it’s pretty obvious what’s causing the dry spell. He gives John a nod, touches the bill of his cap, and walks down to the tobacco shop. Inside, the sweet aroma of tobacco and magazine paper mixes with the cool of the air-conditioning. Irene is behind the counter popping cigarette packs into a plastic rack, pushing them back against the spring-loaded device so that, later, when she removes them for customers she’ll feel the next pack snap urgently into place. In front of the magazines the men, mostly dressed in loose black trousers, white shirts, and suspenders, are staring into their reading materials, covers folded over covers.

Thompson stands for a moment and imagines what he might do to shake things up, to send a small tremor over the peaceful, almost pastoral nature of their yearning. You know, bog folk would fit neatly into your desires, he might argue with them. The wet, smooth skin resembling what was once alive but isn’t anymore succumbing to the grotesqueries of skin and orifices and the splaying of legs. You’d stare deep into the wild grimaces of Tollund Man, the supplicate, almost matronly lips of Roum Woman, the tiny haunches of Falster Boy, his throat slit from ear to ear. You’d gaze long at Windeby Girl in her tight blindfold. At Bocksten Man snuffed and staked to the ground like a pup tent, you’d gape. They’d listen to him as he spoke and nod and chew their tobacco and say, Yeah, you’re Elyria Man for certain, and by virtue of being found around here, we’d have to say you’re one of us.

But instead of speaking, Thompson goes to the counter—white from coin scratches—and watches his own hands rest there while Irene, dressed today in a white blouse and tweed skirt outfit that seems matronly and formal, reaches back without looking and intuitively rests her hand on the golden pouch of tobacco.