Virgil stared down the dirt road. This was the road. It led from their thrice repaired doublewide to the old highway, from there to the bridge, and from there to who knew where. But he wanted to know.
“I should jes go.”
“Why doncha, Sweet?” Pistol asked innocently.
“No car,” Virgil shrugged, putting the thought off for another day as if he could toss it away like the stones they were aiming at the ‘Slow Children’ sign.
“We’s got th’ole GMC .”
“T’ain’t mine. Pa bought it.” Pistol only shrugged and threw another pebble at the sign sending a reverberating twang around the trailer park.
“If’n you go, ain’t like you’s comin’ back, is it.”
“Nah, but I gots scruples, see, an’ tha’s the problem,” Virgil huffed, admitting defeat to his own moral compass.
Pistol scrunched his nose and looked quizzical, “Don’t think we’s played that in a coon’s age. Dat the game wi’ dice?”
Virgil just chuckled to himself and turned to go back to the trailer, back to his life, back to only dreaming about life outside a small town.