A low, uneasy moaning begins at sight of the bullwhip, and the bared teeth alternate with that in a singsong incantation as he totters up onto his knees and rests his folded knuckles flat on the floor. The hair is long on his back and arms and legs. His face is transfixed with an ignorance as old as time, yet a small light burns in his eyes, and he has a little tail six inches in length extending from the coccyx bone with a tufted tip of bristles. He slides forward a few inches closer to the healer. Old bones lie piled in corners for safekeeping with their scraps of blackened flesh.

“You might as well go on and heal him,” the farmer says. “We ain’t letting you out of here till you do.”

“He’s been like this a long time,” the mother says.

“You don’t understand,” the healer says. “I’ve never dealt with anything like this.”

“You cured cancer,” the farmer says.

“Raised the dead, I’ve heard,” the mother says.

“No ma’am. Ain’t nobody ever raised the dead but Jesus Himself,” the healer says, as the thing begins to look as if it would like to grab his leg. He tries to retreat, but the gun is in his back like a hard finger.

“What you think, mama?” the farmer says.

“I think he’s trying to pull our leg,” she says.

“You think he’s a false prophet?”

“Might be. Or maybe he’s used up all his power?”

“I known it was him when I seen that black car,” she says.

“Lots of people have black cars,” the healer says dully, unable to take his own eyes off those dully glinting ones before him. What lies inside there will not do to look at, it won’t be altered by human hands, probably should have been drowned when it was little. “Don’t let him hurt me,” he says.

“Hurt you? Why he ain’t going to hurt you,” the mother says. “He just wants to play with you a little bit. We come down here and play with him all the time, don’t we, daddy.”

“That’s right,” the farmer says. “Hopfrog and leap-scotch and like that. Go on and lay your hands on him. He won’t bite or nothing, I promise.”

“He’s real good most of the time,” she says. “We just keep him penned up so he won’t hurt hisself.”

“I can’t … I can’t …” the healer begins.

“Can’t what?” the farmer says.

“Can’t what?” the mother says.

“Touch him,” the healer breathes.

“Uh oh,” says the farmer. “I’s afraid of that, mama.”

“You people have got to let me out of here,” the healer says. “I’m on my way to Arkansas.”

“Wrong answer, mister,” the farmer says.

“Definitely the wrong answer,” the mother says.

Their boy moves closer and his snarling mouth seems to smile.