heâd be able to catch out of Caney Creek before they were all gone. He wondered if after he did heâd be able to find another way-back trickle of water that held them. He tried to imagine that stream, imagine he was there right now fishing it.
He must have passed out again, because when he opened his eyes the sun hovered just above the tree line. The humming in his head was gone and when he tested the leg, pain flamed up every bit as fierce as before. He wondered how long it would be until his parents got worried and how long it would take after that before someone found his truck and folks began searching. Tomorrow at the earliest, he figured, and even then theyâd search the river before looking anywhere else.
Travis lifted his head a few inches and shouted toward the woods. No one called back. Being so close to the ground muffled his voice, so he used a forearm to raise himself a little higher and shout again.
Iâm going to have to sit up, he told himself, and just the thought of doing so made bile rise into his throat. He took deliberate breaths and used both arms to lift himself. Pain smashed against his body and the world drained of color until all of what surrounded him was shaded a deep blue. He leaned back on the ground, sweat popping out on his face and armslike blisters. Everything was moving farther away, the sky and trees and plants, as though he were being slowly lowered into a well. He shivered and wondered why he hadnât brought a sweatshirt or jacket with him.
Two men came out of the woods, and seeing them somehow cleared his head for a few moments, brought the worldâs color and proximity back. They walked toward him with no more hurry than men come to check their plants for cutworms. Travis knew the big man in front was Carlton Toomey and the man trailing him his son. He couldnât remember the sonâs name but had seen him in town. What he remembered was the son had been away from the county for nearly a decade, and some said heâd been in the Marines and others said prison and some said both, though you wouldnât know it from his long brown hair, the bright bead necklace around his neck. The younger man wore a dirty white tee-shirt and jeans, the older man blue coveralls with no shirt underneath. Grease coated their hands and arms.
They stood above him but did not speak or look at him. Carlton Toomey jerked a red rag from his back pocket and rubbed his hands and wrists. The son stared at the woods across the creek. Travis wondered if they werenât there at all, were just some imagining in his head.
âMy legâs hurt,â Travis said, figuring if they spoke back they must be real.
âI reckon it is,â Carlton Toomey said, looking at him now. âI reckon itâs near about cut clear off.â
The younger man spoke.
âWhat we going to do?â
Carlton Toomey did not answer, instead eased himself onto the ground beside the boy. They were almost eye level now.
âWhoâs your people?â
âMy daddyâs Harvey Shelton.â
âYou ainât much more than ass and elbows, boy. Iâd have thought what Harvey Shelton sired to be stouter. You must favor your mother.â Carlton Toomey nodded his head and smiled. âMe and your daddy used to drink some together, but that was back when he was sowing his wild oats. He still farming tobacco?â
âYes sir.â
âThe best days of tobacco men is behind them. I planted my share of burley, made decent money for a while. But that tit has done gone dry. How much your daddy make last year, sixâseven thousand?â
Travis tried to remember, but the numbers would not line up in his head. His brain seemed tangled in cobwebs.
âHeâd make as much sitting on his ass and collecting welfare. If youâre going to make a go of it in these mountains today you got to find another way.â
Carlton Toomey stuffed the rag in his back