Cicada hummed in the trees, a soundtrack for a Southern night. Sweet walked down the gravel road with his eyes fixed forward.

“Wheres you gonna’ go, Sweet,” Pistol pleaded, walking with sidelong steps beside his brother.

“Don’t matter.”

“Pa don’t mean it. He’s jes buzzed is all. It’ll be a’right in tha mo’nin.”

“No,” Sweet said flatly, “It ain’t nevah gonna be a’right.” Before Pistol could argue further the family’s rusted truck rumbled up behind them, almost drowning out the cidada chorus. Pistol cowered, fearing the worst.

Sweet kept walking, but the truck rolled along with Bubba behind the wheel, “Fer tha smart one, you’s pretty stupid.” Sweet didn’t answer. “Sweet.” No answer. “Virgil!”

That warranted at least a surly, “What?” as none of the family ever called him by his given name.

“Ya gots nothin but those clothes, fool,” Bubba drawled.

“So?” Sweet challenged.

“So I packed yer crap up fer ya. Now git in tha truck, so’s I can drive ya ta town, like a brother oughta.”