There was a muddy four- wheeler sitting in the yard near Poe’s old Camaro, its three- thousand- dollar paintjob and blown transmission. Metal sheds in various states of collapse, a Number 3 Dale Earnhardt flag pinned across one of them, a wooden game pole for hanging deer. Poe was sitting at the top of the hill, looking out toward the river from his folding chair. If you could find a way to pay your mortgage, people always said, it was like living on God’s back acre.

The whole town thought Poe would go to college to keep playing ball, not exactly Big Ten material but good enough for somewhere, only two years later here he was, living in his mother’s trailer, sitting in the yard and looking like he intended to cut firewood. This week or maybe next. A year older than Isaac, his glory days already past, a dozen empty beer cans at his feet. He was tall and broad and squareheaded and at two hundred forty pounds, more than twice the size of Isaac. When he saw him, Poe said:

“Getting rid of you for good, huh?”

“Hide your tears,” Isaac told him. He looked around. “Where’s your bag?” It was a relief to see Poe, a distraction from the stolen money in his pocket.

Poe grinned and sipped his beer. He hadn’t showered in days—he’d been laid off when the town hardware store cut its hours and was putting off applying to Wal- Mart as long as possible.

“As far as coming along, you know I’ve got all this stuff to take care of.” He waved his arm generally at the rolling hills and woods in the distance. “No time for your little caper.”

“You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

“Christ, Mental, you can’t seriously want me to come with you.”

“I don’t care either way,” Isaac told him.

“Looking at it from my own selfish point of view, I’m still on goddamn probation. I’m better off robbing gas stations.”

“Sure you are.”