I lay awake in bed—which was nothing more than a moldy mattress covered with fresh white linens—for close to an hour, staring at the picture of my parents that I had fastened into the ceiling. Above me, the rain tapped out an irregular but consistent beat on the aluminum roofing, until about nine o’clock, when it stopped completely. Then I waited another half hour before taking a quick shower and dressing into jeans and a T-shirt. I was out the door and headed toward Grandma’s trailer, my sneakers squishing in the wet grass and mud, when I first saw Joey Cunningham. He was a small black kid, standing no higher than five feet tall. He wore a dark blue windbreaker, the sleeves pulled up, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he walked down the drive. His sneakers were gray but nondescript, something bought from a warehouse or bargain store. The glasses on his plain face were thick and goggle-like, and as we passed each other, he looked up at me and smiled. I nodded at him but that was it, and a second later he was behind me.
