“I cain’t trust you to do a damn thing, Jimbo,” he said, hands shoved in his pockets, one shoulder leaning against the post.

Jimbo examined the ash column on the cigarette Hank held between his dry lips as he spoke. It had grown so long, Jimbo could scarcely believe it had not fallen off.

“I leave you with that boy for just a minute….” Hank continued, “I swear, you ain’t got the sense God gave a Billy goat.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jimbo, only dimly aware of the weightiness of the situation. “I cain’t watch him ever single second.”

“You know what? You are one dumb sumbitch. Pathetic, depraved sumbitch.” Now Hank had finally grasped the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, dropped it onto the porch, and was mashing it into the wood with his boot.

“I ain’t pathetic!” Jimbo could feel the ownership of his stupid mistake, however minuscule, morph into defensiveness. He squared his shoulders. “And I ain’t depraved, neither. I got everthang I ever needed in this world.”

Hank just shook his head and stared out at the gathering darkness.