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mandolin and plucks a few notes. “Who wants to sing tonight?”
    “Me.” Francesco reaches into his pocket. “And here. For you boys.” He places pennies on the floor between us: one, two, three, four. Four! “In case you want to skip the music and go have some other kind of fun tonight.”
    I pocket all four pennies. After all, I’m older. “Thank you.”
    “Thank you,” says Cirone.
    We walk toward town, our uncles’ songs fading in the background. It will be the usual night at home—music and dance and cigars. Pretending like they’re back in Sicily, surrounded by neighbors, joking and laughing. Just the four of them. Or maybe only three, ’cause they take turns going across the river to Vicksburg for fun. Vicksburg is four times the size of Tallulah; there’s plenty going on.
    All at once I’m blue, thinking about them. They’re lonely. At least Francesco is—saying all that to Joe. If I didn’t have Cirone, I don’t know what I’d do.
    “How about the slaughterhouse?” asks Cirone as soon as we’re out of sight.
    “You want to risk crossing a panther again?”
    “Aw, come on. He didn’t hurt us.”
    “Why do you like that place so much, anyway?”
    Cirone says real quiet, “My father was a butcher.”
    My father was a fisherman. With thick arms from pulling in nets, and pocked cheeks from facing the salty wind all the time. He left for America to find his fortune, right after Rocco was born. We never heard from him again. I was ten when I last saw him, but I remember everything about him, his voice, even his smell. Cirone was only four when he last saw his father. What can he possibly remember? “All right. But I’m not going near the woods where that panther came out. Race you.”
    We run across the meadow, past the lit-up slaughterhouse, then I punch Cirone lightly in the shoulder and slow us to a walk. Running in town draws attention. A few minutes later I turn onto Cedar Street.
    “Not yet.” Cirone catches me by the elbow. “The ice cream saloon isn’t for two more blocks.”
    I smile. We haven’t said a word to each other about where we’re going to spend those four cents, but of course the ice cream saloon is the best choice. I feel proud at the idea of going somewhere public without my uncles, which is dumb. I’m fourteen! But Francesco keeps tight rein on us, as though we’re little kids, so this is new to me.
    “If we go down Cedar, we pass the courthouse,” I say.
    “Who cares? What do you want to look at it for?”
    “It’s different at night.”
    “How?”
    “Did I give you a hard time about going past the slaughterhouse?”
    Cirone pads along after me.
    Sometimes I think I’ll never get used to the dirt streets here. I miss the cobblestones of Cefalù. But at least the dirt lies flat tonight. In the daytime it’s dusty, stirred up by people, wagons, horses, carts, mules, hogs.
    Dead quiet.
    Except for the crickets. There must be millions of them.
    We pass Sheriff Lucas’ house, and his two dogs charge off the porch, ears and jowls flopping. I’m glad there’s a fence. The dogs are massive, and their short hair covers loose, wrinkled skin. I pull back. Cirone reaches between pickets and pets one.
    I gasp. “Are you crazy?” But that dog is acting as if he likes it.
    “They don’t bite unless the sheriff tells them to.”
    I feel stupid. “I thought you didn’t like dogs.”
    “I don’t.” Cirone shoves the hand that petted the dog in my face.
    “Yuck.” I sneeze. “That stinks.”
    Cirone laughs. “Their drool stinks even worse.”
    A soft sound comes from above. It’s a large bird. From the ragged zigzags I know it’s a yellow-headed night heron. Francesco taught me that. They’re good eating.
    The redbrick courthouse looms at the corner of Depot Street, a two-story giant with front balconies and chimneys up the north side. On the south a stand of cottonwoods lifts its arms as if in praise. The windows are tall, and the columns and railings