Harlan slapped his son's bare chest with the back of his hand. "Get your shit-black feet off Cal's window! He'll think you was raised in a barn."

"Hey, wait a minute there, Harlan," Cal said. "Ain't nothing wrong with the boy resting his feet up there just because he ain't wearing socks like you. Shit, what's a window sill for but to cool off the tired old dogs?"

"See," Seth said, nodding to Cal appreciatively. "I ain't hurting nothing, Pa." He nabbed Harlan's can of Coors.

Harlan let the boy get a good swig of beer, then yanked the can out of his hands. "Don't be a pig, boy. Mind your manners."

Cal laughed. "Let the boy drink up, Harlan. Here's another can for you." He tossed Harlan another can, but before Harlan could get it Seth snatched it out of the air from right in front of Harlan's nose. Seth's arm was as fast as a whip. He'd make one hell of a boxer, Harlan had thought many times.

Harlan watched the boy rip the tab off the can and start chugging down the beer. "Slow down, boy. I ain't gonna have you crawling around drunk." He grabbed Seth's arm. Sudsy beer spilled down Seth's neck and over his chest.

"Now you made me spill it," Seth said. "Shit!" He wiped the beer off his bare belly. Some of it had run down under his jeans, making it look like he'd creamed in his pants.

"Don't go shitting me, boy," Harlan said. "Unless you want a good whipping. I can still take you, boy. Remember that."

"Sure, Pa," Seth said, wiping his wet hand on the leg of his jeans. His wheat-colored hair fell in his eyes, making him look like a forlorn sheep dog.

"What're you so dang ornery about anyway?" Harlan could always tell when something was wrong in his son's head. The boy had the same shut-mouthed orneriness as his ma had had.