Will was moody and silent, and Milt, for the first time in two months, left part of his food. Afterward, the crew drifted out, and Will and Milt went into the big room and lighted smokes. Will hauled up a stool by the big table and brought out his new tally book, while Milt watched from the door. There was something prophetic about Will’s act; it told Milt that Will had decided irrevocably to buy this place and live here. Milt wanted to stride over, yank the book away from Will, and tell him why they couldn’t stay, why they had to run. But time was slipping, and if he did that it meant that tonight he would have to run. To where? How could he hide? He remembered the long misery of riding the grub line, of hunger, of blistered hands, of long, lonely nights, of fear during the two months he had waited for Will to get this place. No, the place was bad enough, but it was better than being on the dodge. Milt paced the floor in slow restlessness and finally stopped beside Will. “I’m goin’ out for air, Will.
