Scott didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. He sat on the rocking chair of his porch. Swung slight and slow. He stared. Watching Henry on his porch put stolen beer into an ice chest. Scott wasn’t tired, hungry, thirsty, or even sad. He fought a fury of red matter in his temporal lobe.
“In bout two hours you gone wish you had yaself some beer, too, boy. I don’t know how yous spectin to get to sleep tonight.” Henry chuckled and pulled himself up with a sigh. Pains in his left heel made it hard to even sit down. Ivory’s diagnosis was a bone spur in his heel, telling him time and again to get it checked. But Ivory was out in Mississippi and she couldn’t see him limping now. The next time he was able to get a phone call out to her he wasn’t going to tell her how much worse the pain had gotten.
“Goddam, son. Whatchu starin at?” Henry yelled across the driveway that divided their homes.
Atop a car, half a block away, a dog was floating their way.