Bone nodded, smiling industriously. “Tonight,” Deacon said, “we leave this pissant town. No work here. No use even looking. Ride away is about the best we can do.”

“Bad place to camp,” Archie put in. “Bad cops,” Deacon said. “That’s the story here. You understand me, Bone? Tonight.”

“Yes, Deacon,” Bone said out loud. But he perceived that the sun was already on its way down, and the two men showed no signs of packing up. Move on, he thought, yes, that would be good. Inside him, strange feelings stirred.

That night, for the first time, the feeling grew so strong in him that he thought it might drive him mad.

He woke up after Deacon and Archie and the rest of the hoboes in the meager encampment had fallen asleep. The fires were out and frying pans hung in the dogwood trees like Christmas decorations. It was dark, and the cold had come down again.

Bone sat up, shivering. He wasn’t sure what had brought him awake. He gazed up at the nameless and unfamiliar constellations. This feeling, he thought. But maybe it was only hunger. Bone was big and the food he had begged from Deacon and Archie had only aroused his huge appetite.

He stood up, tiptoeing over Deacon where he was curled up in a moth-eaten Hudson’s Bay blanket, and began to move silently and swiftly back along the train tracks. There was a crescent moon and Bone’s night vision was very good. The rows of head lettuce stretched away to converge at the vanishing point, a horizon full of food. He boosted himself up a barbed-wire fence, ravaging the skin on his palms, and fell on the other side. The lettuce was all new growth but it didn’t matter to Bone,- he filled his mouth with green matter, swallowed, filled it again, again, until at last his hunger had abated some.