“You two get on outta here,” Pap yells. “Go see your pal Rick. Go climb your old magnolia tree. Find yourselves some place cool—October the first and it’s still hotter’n a blast furnace.”

Billy and Punchy start down the porch steps just as Pap starts up them. Punchy bumps into Pap’s leg and Pap’s heavy work boot shoots out and glances off the little dog’s rump. Punchy yelps and runs under the porch. From the way he runs it looks like he’s not hurt, but Billy gives his grandpap a look.

This is the worst Pap’s been since Grandmam died. He’s been drinking already and it’s not even two o’clock. He can’t sit still. For the past half hour he’s been coming outside every few minutes,

looking up the gravel road. Usually on Saturdays they go to the grocery store, but when Billy asked about that, Pap said they didn’t need anything.

Billy opened cans of Vienna Sausage and got out Cheerios and milk for their breakfast. Then he and Punchy stayed outside until lunch, which was peanut butter and honey sandwiches and more milk. Not much for an almost 13-year-old, but he was more interested in staying out of Pap’s way than in looking for more food. His grandpap hadn’t eaten much of anything. After lunch, Billy sat on the swing and read his Superman comic books while Punchy sniffed around for lizards and toads.

Now Pap crosses the porch and opens the screen door. Without looking at Billy he says, “You heard me, Billy Boy. You and Punchy go on,” and he goes inside. Billy whistles. Punchy’s head appears from under the porch. He looks for Pap, then comes out and the two run down the road. They stop as soon as they round the bend and are hidden by the blackberry bushes growing along the barbed wire fence.

“Pap acts like he’s expecting somebody, Punch,” Billy says. “And he sure don’t want us around. Well, I reckon we’re not leaving ’til I find out what’s going on.”

He takes a peek. No sign of Pap. They walk back quietly and crawl under the porch. The dirt feels cool on the scorching hot day. “Quiet, Punchy,” Billy says. While they wait, Billy rubs the thin brown leather band on his left wrist. Sure enough, in about ten minutes a pickup truck with two men in it rattles down the gravel road, turns onto the dirt driveway and parks behind Pap’s old car.

Billy hopes it’s somebody who’ll get his grandpap to settle down. Pap’s been worried for the past couple of weeks. Billy figures it has to do with money, but he knows better than to ask a lot of questions. His grandpap’s hard to live with when he’s upset. Not as hard as Billy’s mama was though. It’s easier to live with just Pap than when she was there, too. Seemed like she was always upset about something.

Two strange men get out of the rusty pickup. It looks like about a 1939 Ford. That would make it ten years old. Looks like it’s not been treated too good. The guys stretch and scratch and look around, then come on up the steps and tromp across the porch.

Billy crawls over and peers up at them through a crack as they stand at the front door. The driver has a big belly hanging over his belt and greasy hair with streaks of gray in it sticking out from under  a dirty brown cowboy hat. The other one’s a good bit younger, but no cleaner. Billy thinks he may have seen him before, but there’s so many skinny, dark-haired guys with pimply faces and baseball caps riding around in pickup trucks and they’re all pretty much alike. Except this one has more pimples than most.

The young one bangs on the screen door and Pap yells, “Come on in.”

Billy notices they don’t bother to wipe their boots and those boots could stand a good cleaning. They must have come straight from a cow pasture. The smell is strong all the way down to Billy’s hideaway. He knows they’re leaving tracks.

“Mighty hot drive all the way down here.” The older man has a gravelly voice. “It looks like fall ain’t never gonna come. Makes a fellow mighty thirsty.”

“I’ll get you some water,” Billy hears his grandpap say. “Or I got some whiskey. You rather have that?” Billy’s surprised at the offer, but not surprised when Fat Man and Pimples take Pap up on it.

Pap’s footsteps go over to the corner cupboard. The threadbare sofa squeaks as the visitors sit down. The little wood house is built on a concrete foundation, so Billy can’t get under the front room. He gets close as he can and lies on his back, still as a possum, with his hands cupping his ears and Punchy close up to him, quiet as Billy.

Nothing’s being said. Billy hears the corner cupboard door open and close, then he figures Pap’s gone to the kitchen for glasses. He pictures him standing at the kitchen table, pouring about an inch of whiskey in each glass. He knows it won’t be any more than that for visitors. In a few minutes, Pap’s big old green chair squishes as he sits down.

It’s quiet for a bit, then Pap starts talking. Fast and not very loud. Billy can only get snatches of what he’s saying. Something about a job. Something about land. Something about the government.

Then the other two chime in and it’s hard to make sense of any of it with three talking at once.

Billy hears Pap say “fifty dollars” real plain. There’s an argument after that, with “not enough” shouted a few times and Pap getting  louder and louder about it being “plenty for an easy job,” and finally, in a quieter voice that Billy knows means business: “Well, take it or leave it. There’s other folks’ll do it for less.”

The guys must know Pap means what he says, because they decide to take it. Fat Man gravels out an “Okay” and Pimples whines, “It ain’t enough, but I guess I’m in.”

“All right then, here’s what you’re gonna do,” says Pap. His voice drops lower and the other two sit there uh huh-ing and all-righting and we can do that-ing.

The green chair squishes again as Pap pushes up out of it and says in his regular voice, “You get on it Monday night. It sure ain’t gonna rain and there won’t be anybody driving around down there then. Fifty dollars cash money when it’s done, and not a word about this to anybody. You got that?”

“We got it,” Fat Man says. “Now, how’s about a little more of that whiskey? Seal the deal.”

“Naw,” says Pap. “No more drinking ’til you finish the job. That’s an order. You’re gonna need clear heads and steady hands. Now listen here, you go on now to see it, but just drive by. I don’t want you stopping there. Sometimes there’s kids around. Drive by it to get the lay of the land. No stopping in town, neither. You’d be noticed. Just haul yourselves on up the road—you got a ways to go.” 

The two guys clomp over to the front door and come out onto the porch. Billy scoots back to the crack. They don’t look too happy. They go straight down the steps, get in the pickup, back out of the dirt drive and take off the way they came, with tires squealing and throwing up gravel. Like Fat Man’s getting in the last word.

Pap comes out and watches the truck drive up the road. Then he goes back inside. Billy hears his footsteps heading for the kitchen. He thinks he knows what Pap’s going for: more whiskey.

Billy wishes he could go talk to Rick, but he knows Rick’s not home. Oh well, that’s okay. “Come on, Punchy,” he whispers. And the two of them set off at a run, headed for Lost Lane.