Beginning by Michael Farris Smith Page A

anywhere?”
    â€œI know what he’d say.”
    â€œI know you got that place and all and I know it goes way on back with the family. I know you got them ghosts out there. But I don’t know about the rest.”
    Cohen wiped the dampness from his face, then said, “It doesn’t matter.”
    â€œThere ain’t nothing to do down here but die, Cohen,” Charlie said, turning his back to the line of men and lowering his voice. “And it’s just gonna keep on.”
    â€œFrom what I hear there ain’t nothing but hell at the Line anyway.”
    â€œWouldn’t nobody blame you for leaving,” Charlie said.
    â€œGuess not. Ain’t nobody here.”
    â€œYou might think about moving on, Cohen. That’s all I’m saying.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Charlie didn’t answer. He looked past Cohen out of the back of the truck.
    Cohen reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. “How much I owe you?” he asked.
    Charlie huffed. “Gimme forty,” he said.
    â€œI know it’s more than that.”
    Charlie reached down and picked up a couple of four-packs of the Ds and dropped them in Cohen’s bag. “No charge for these,” he said.
    Cohen reached into his pocket and took out a hundred-dollar bill and gave it to Charlie. “I don’t need no change,” he said.
    â€œWhy the hell you do that?”
    Cohen shrugged. “What else am I gonna do with it? Put whatever’s left toward one of them.”
    Charlie took the bill and shook his head. “At least listen to the damn radio. You got a radio?”
    â€œI got a radio,” Cohen said and he set the bags on top of the cases of water and picked it all up. Charlie slapped him on the back as he headed down the ramp.
    â€œCome on up, old fellow,” Charlie said to the man with the sign.
    â€œ ’Bout time,” he answered.
    â€œReally? You want to move to the back?”
    Cohen nodded to the muscle as he walked over to the Jeep. He set the water and bags in the backseat next to the two gas tanks and then he put his sock hat on. One more look back at the ocean and then he got in the Jeep and turned around and headed back in the other direction. The rain, for now, was tolerable, soft and steady, but the southeastern clouds seemed to be turning into great black mountains. When it was time to turn off the highway, he stopped and opened a bag of the beef jerky and drove on with it between his legs. A couple of miles along the highway, before he got back to where the water covered the road, he saw the boy and the girl again. Her arm draped around his neck like before. Her limping along and him helping. The sound of the Jeep stopped them and they turned around to see what was coming and Cohen stopped again. He put the jerky on the floorboard and he took the shotgun from beneath the seat and then he drove on toward them. He knew they would wave him down and he knew better than to stop. As he approached, the boy moved the girl’s arm from around his neck and began waving and the girl doubled over.
    Keep on going, he thought. Keep on going. Then the look on the face of the big man in the flannel shirt crossed his mind. I ain’t got no money this time. I ain’t got nothing.
    He slowed down. Rolled to a stop several car lengths from them. “Stay right there,” he called out.
    The boy reached back out to the girl and she leaned on him. Her baseball hat was gone and her long black hair fell across her face and shoulders in a wet, tangled mess.
    Cohen raised himself up to where he could talk to them over the windshield. Before he spoke, he gave them a careful look and they didn’t appear to have anything other than what they were wearing. The wind blew cold and the girl folded her arms and held herself.
    â€œWhat you doing out here?”
    â€œWalking,” said the boy.
    â€œWhere to? I don’t see nowhere you could be