“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.

Flenco stands in her nightgown and robe and curlers, pumping gas into the neck of the fuel tank located in the left rear quarter panel of the truck. Years ago Mr. Redding took a hammer and screwdriver to it so that it would readily accept a leaded gasoline nozzle. Flenco pumps five dollars worth into it and hands the money to the attendant who wiped no windshield and checked no oil but stood gawking at the rigid figure of Mr. Redding displayed in the seat like a large sack of potatoes. The attendant takes the five and looks thoughtfully at Flenco, then opens his mouth to ask:

“Lady, is this guy all right?”

Flenco starts to go around and get behind the wheel and then, when she sees the beer signs hung in the windows of the gas station, thinks of the twenty-dollar bill wadded in the pocket of her robe like used facial tissue.

“Well he’s been sick,” she says, hurrying toward the door of the building.