Meat said. “Well, I’m not,” Herculeah answered. “They’re depressing.” “Not to me.” “I bet they are to the people they’re about.” “The people they’re about can’t read them. They’re dead.” “Well, I’ve got to take a break. Let me know when you find something.” Meat’s break consisted of leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Still, he had to glance at Herculeah occasionally to see how it was going. Herculeah and Meat had come right to the periodical room of the public library after school. The city newspaper was on microfilm, and Herculeah was now threading in the reel for 1991, January-June. Herculeah was peering intently at the screen. “What month are you on now?” he asked. “Open your eyes and see.” “I’m on a break.” “January.” “What year?” “Ninety-one.” “How long are we going to keep this up?” “We’re going to keep it up until we find what we’re looking for.” Herculeah was getting ready to roll directly to the obituary page when an article caught her eye.
