The square held a patch of green grass and a bandstand wreathed by black iron benches. In the cool splash of shade beneath an enormous magnolia tree two old men sat, whittling. They glanced up as he passed. One of them nodded, spat, then returned to his whittling.

The screen door on Vickery’s Cafe had a wide red and white tin band advertising Coca-Cola. The metal was warm beneath Will’s hands and the door spring sang out as he entered the place. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. At a long counter, two men turned, regarded him indolently without removing their elbows from beside their coffee cups. A buxom young woman ambled the length of the counter and drawled, "Howdy. What can I do for y’, honey?"

Will trained his eyes on her face to keep them off the row of plates behind the counter where cherry and apple pie winked an invitation.

"Wondered if you got a local paper I could look at."

She smiled dryly and cocked one thin-plucked eyebrow, glanced at the lump of wet green terrycloth he held against his thigh, then reached beneath the counter to dig one out. Will knew perfectly well she’d seen him pause before the newspaper office across the street, then walk over here instead.

"Much obliged," he said as he took it.

She propped the heel of one hand on a round hip and ran her eyes over the length of him while chewing gum lazily, making it snap.

"You new around these parts?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"You the new one out at the sawmill?"

Will had to force his hands not to grip the folded paper. All he wanted was to read it and get the hell out of here. But the two at the counter were still staring over their shoulders. He felt their speculative gazes and gave the waitress a curt nod.