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seat, closes the door, and begins walking toward the man.
    â€œShe’s hungry. And nursing,” Skeetah says.
    In every one of the Greeks’ mythology tales, there is this: a man chasing a woman, or a woman chasing a man. There is never a meeting in the middle. There is only a body in a ditch, and one person walking toward or away from it. Big Henry is kneeling next to the woman. The man has sunk to a squat so that only his head is visible, which he is holding in his hands. I think I hear him moaning. Big Henry hovers over the woman like a grounded buzzard at the side of the road, awkward and cross-footed. I wonder what the woman with the hair the color of a golden condom wrapper is to the man.
    â€œI don’t trust her.” Skeetah waits to say this until Big Henry is too far away to hear, so low I think he’s forgotten I’m sitting in the backseat.
    â€œYou think they family or friends?” I shift to ease the scratch of the test, but I don’t move too much because I don’t want it to fall out of the band of my shorts. Skeetah doesn’t answer. I push the front seat.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œFamily or friends?” I look back toward them to see that the man is wandering toward us. Big Henry hollers at him, but it sounds like he is mumbling.
    â€œLovers,” he says.
    â€œWhat you mean?”
    â€œYou know what I mean,” Skeetah says.
    I’d always assumed he missed more than half of what went on at the Pit; seemed like all I ever saw around him, once he brought home a pit he told me he stole out of somebody’s yard when he was twelve, were dogs. Striped dogs, bald, whitish-pink dogs, fat dogs, dogs so skinny their bones looked like a school of fish darting around under their skin. His voice was a bark, his step the wagging thump of a meaty tail. We lost each other, a little. And now I wonder what Skeetah’s seen, what he’s been paying attention to when his dogs are sleeping, when he’s between dogs, because every dog before China died before they got a year old. Each time, Skeetah waited a week, then got another one. Before China, he never bothered to buy dog food, and he fed them table scraps mixed with Daddy’s chicken feed. What does he know about lovers? He’s the odd one, the one that always smells like sweaty fur when all the boys are together, the one the girls probably think stinks. But even I know that there’s one, always one, who likes the boy like Skeetah. There’s always one for everybody. But I don’t think he believes that. A hand slaps the door wetly, and the man is there, his fingers trailing red like fishing line. He is squinting at Skeetah, and Skeetah is leaning away from the door.
    â€œHey, man.” I hear the crank; Skeetah is rolling up the window.
    â€œI think I’ve seen you before.”
    Skeetah stops mid-roll.
    â€œDon’t you cut grass?”
    â€œCan you please get away from the car?” I squeak.
    â€œAt the graveyard?”
    Skeetah rolls up the window so that it seals. Instantly it is five degrees hotter.
    â€œThis asshole,” Skeetah mutters. “Why doesn’t he go check on his girlfriend?” He wants to open the door, I know. “How he just going to leave her there like he don’t see her, walk over her like a pile of dirty clothes on the floor?” He wants to hit the man, the bleeding man, with the door. He wants to cuss the man out.
    â€œHe’s already bleeding.”
    â€œHe don’t know me. He don’t even live in Bois Sauvage.”
    â€œMaybe he live in one of them big houses back out on the bayou. Maybe he go to one of them churches upcountry and saw you on his way.”
    Skeetah rolls on his shoulder so the knob digs into his back; the glass pillows his head. “Big Henry need to come get him.” He says it, and Big Henry is shuffling across the grass toward us; he moves gracefully when he runs. All the awkwardness that hobbles