Another story was of a moonshiner named Hugh McMillen, whose Ford had run out of gas transporting his high-quality cargo to Athens for students at the University of Georgia, and how Hugh McMillen had used a gallon of his moonshine to finish off the trip, claiming his Ford had never run as well or as fast or as far on such little fuel.

From his high, suspended place, Noah listened to the talk and the laughter. Watched himself listening. Watched the hand-waving of men making a bid for attention.

And there, in his looking-down place, he thought of his brother, thought of Travis. Once Travis had been in a car accident, had lain unconscious for days, a lung punctured, and there had been fear of his dying. He remembered his mother sitting for hours beside Travis’s bed, holding his hand, making sounds that he took to be prayer, though he could not hear the words since the words were sent to her soul and not to the ears of anyone listening.

He believed his mother had made a bargain with God. He believed his mother had whispered to her soul, “Let him live and I will take his place in hell, if that is where you want to put him.” Travis had lived. Had come back to health over time and, over time, had resumed his dangerous ways.

His mother’s bargain had not been the only one offered for Travis.

He, too, had tried to make a deal. Not with God, but with his mother.

On the day Travis had been sentenced—twenty years at hard labor—he had gone to his mother privately, had said to her, “I want you to do something.”

His mother had asked, “What is it?”

He had said, “You know the sheriff and some of the lawyers, don’t you?”

“Not much,” his mother had told him. “I just know them from everything that’s been going on. Tell me what you getting at.”

He had said, “Travis is smart, Mama. If he gets the right chance, he’ll do things that’d make you proud.”

“Maybe,” his mother had replied. “But he’s got to own up to all he’s done wrong before he can get straightened out.”

He had said, “The truth is, I’m never going to do nothing but get by. I wish you’d talk to the sheriff and the lawyers and let me take Travis’s place.”

For a long moment, his mother had not replied. She had turned away at the kitchen table, which was dimly lighted by a kerosene lamp. Still, Noah could see she was hiding a film of tears that coated her eyes. And then his mother had said in a soft, aching voice, “No, son, I can’t do that. I can’t let you take the punishment for something your brother’s done. Even if your daddy was alive, he wouldn’t let that happen.”

And maybe it had worked out the way it should have, Noah thought. If he had traded places with Travis, Travis would have been in the war and the way Travis was at taking chances, most likely he would have been killed.