Squinting into the bright August sun, Sweet sat on the porch of the Osteen’s general store and sipped his Yoohoo. The air was thick and wet; he was half sure he was drinking more air than he was Yoohoo. The screen door to the store banged open and shut behind him.
“Shoo-wee and dag-gum, it is hot out’ere,” Pistol bemoaned as he plopped down beside his brother. Sweet just watched a rambling, half rusted out pick-up roar by on the dirt road.

After a few minutes, Sweet asked, “Where’s Bubba?”
Pistol looked at the ground, then his Orange Crush, then the ground, “Dunno.”
“Pistol.”

“Mighta’ sayed sumthin’ bout Missy Osteen.” The family lived above the store, and everyone in the family worked there, though it was usually ma and pa occupied downstairs in the store. Sweet rolled his eyes and braced just before he heard the tirade start. He only caught the words degenerate, smutty, and no-good, all classics of Southern vernacular.
“Should we?” Pistol asked reluctantly.
“Jes start runnin’. Bubba’ll catch up.”