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look,” he said.
    I held the rag away from my cheek, and Grandpa bent to get a good look. He whistled. “That'll be one of the best shiners North Carolina has ever seen, I reckon.”
    I laughed a little, which made my face hurt more.
    “You want to tell me what happened?” he asked.
    I sighed. “No.”
    He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Well, tell me anyway,” he said. He folded his bony fingers together and set his hands on the table, like he had all day to wait for me to talk and wasn't going to move until I did.
    I told him about how much I wanted to be a surfman, how helping to save those sailors felt like I'd done something big, something great, like I'd fought a battle and won, and how there are no battles to fight as a fisherman, just the same nets day after day. I told him how I thought Mamma would encourage me to dream big, to work hard for what I wanted, but how everyone was mad at me for wanting it—Floyd, William, even Daddy.
    Grandpa listened without interrupting. When I was done, he said, “I'd shoot myself before I'd tell you not to hope. And if you work real hard, you ought to get what it is you're wanting. But you've got to be ready in case what you hope for doesn't come looking the way you think it should.” He lifted up his hat, scratched his head, and put his hat back on. “Did I ever tell you how I used to have a hankering for a piece of land?”
    I shook my head no.
    Grandpa nodded.
    “It wasn't during slavery times, of course, but after the war, when I had my freedom. Master Johnson had given me some coins when I left his place, and what I wanted more than anything was a farm—just a small one, with a little cottage on it— so I could work the land like I'd always done, knew how to do, only do it for myself instead of for Master Johnson.” He shook his head slightly. “But then one thing led to another, the way life does, and at some point I knew I was never going to have thatfarm, never going to live in a house that belonged to me.” He looked up at me. “And you know what?” he asked.
    “What?” I echoed.
    “It has all been just fine. I certainly enjoyed hoping for that piece of land. And by the time I knew I was never going to get it, I had other good things instead.” He knitted his eyebrows together, like he was trying to figure out the best way to explain things. “What I wanted from that farm was independence—I didn't want to work for another man, white or black, ever again. And I wanted to work it with someone I loved: your Grandma Dahlia. What I got was a fishing skiff. Around here, having your own boat is just like having land—you don't have to work for anybody but yourself. And I got to work that skiff with someone I love—your daddy, and then after a while,
you
. So, you see, sometimes your dreams show up dressed a little different than you thought they'd be. You have to know how to recognize them when they get there.”
    I nodded.
    Grandpa got a faraway look in his eyes. “When your grandma comes back, we'll just have to teach her how to fish now, won't we?”
    I laughed, and Grandpa gave me a mischievous grin. “And someday I
will
have a piece of land. Just a very small one.” He said it like he was giving away a secret.
    “How will you do that, Grandpa?” I asked.
    “When they bury me, that piece of land will be
mine
. I'll have a piece six feet by two feet that nobody else can claim but me.”
    “Grandpa!” I frowned at him and jostled his arm. “Don't talk like that!”
    “I'm just looking at the bright side,” he insisted.
    I was still giving him a perturbed look.
    “Stop your worrying,” he said. He took the rag out of my hand, dipped it into the basin of cool water, then pressed it against my cheek again. “You'll be grown and probably have young ones of your own before I'll let anyone even think about burying me.”
    “Good,” I said.
    “But I don't see any harm in you hoping to be a surfman,” he said. “And working hard toward it