So far, Huck and his brother, Dewey, are doing everything they can to survive the abuse of their father. Huck has developed feelings for Miss Lynn, a colored woman who runs the store in town. But his father is starting to pick up on Huck's interest and that puts Miss Lynn and her children in a very dangerous spot.

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I dream that I'm picking blackberries. Miss Lynn is there, but her children ain't, which is odd, but the brain tends to slap bits and pieces of things together in a dream. But, there I am, standing on one side of the blackberry bush and she's on the other. Our hands keep reaching for the same berries. At first, we just laugh it off, but after a few times, I just summon up all my courage and take her hand in mine and pull her around to my side. She doesn't resist, not in an obvious way. She just looks all shy. Her green eyes sparkle and she dips those thick black lashes down like a curtain.

"You sure are pretty, Miss Lynn," I say. I'm pretty brave in my dream, guessing most people are. I press against her and my heart beat speeds up as she melts her flesh against mine.

"Huck, we can't."

"Why?" I whisper, my hand straying upwards on her back.

"It's wrong," she whispers, but her eyes are on my mouth, her tongue darting across her own full lips.

"Ain't wrong if you love someone."

"You love me?"

"I have always loved you. You're something special."

She smiles and relaxes in my arms. "But, if we was to get caught," she says, not bothering to finish her fears.

"I'll keep you safe, I promise."

Miss Lynn gently lays her head on my shoulder. "I love you, too, Huck."

I sit upright with a jolt. Blood pounds in my ears and every single part of me is on fire. I check to see if Dewey is awake, but thankfully he's sawing logs with his mouth open. I roll onto my side and try to catch my breath. I wait out the fire in my loins until I can close my eyes. That dream had been so real. More real than any other dream I've ever had. I take it as a sign from God. Colored or not, Miss Lynn and I are destined to be together.

The floor boards in the hall creak as someone starts past our room. I stare at the shadow that pauses, the door handle rattles and the light squeak of the hinges sing out as it opens. I close my eyes, pretend to be sleeping. The door closes again.

It was him. Momma would have come over and touched my brow or tiptoed over to adjust the covers on Dewey.

I used to think that maybe Momma loved Dewey more than me, on account of the fact that she doted on him. Even before his accident, she used to call him Dewey green eyes, and I was just Huck. But she don't call him that anymore. Now she calls him Simple Dewey, sweet simple Dewey. I wonder if she'd still call him that if'n she knew about the pit with those sharpened sticks in it. Wonder what she'd think about that. Once you learn too much about somebody, the picture you have of them in your heart changes. Sweet turns sour and light turns dark.

The stairs creak, like a faint whisper telling secrets. I steal out of my bed and go to the bedroom door, opening it just a fraction. It's enough to see out into the hall, but not enough for the hinges to tell on me. The front door opens and then closes. I listen for footsteps in the living room. It's silent. I know it ain't Momma. She wouldn't go outside, not in the dead of night. A few minutes pass and he don't come back inside. He's snuck off, up to no good, you can be certain of that.

Momma says nothing good comes from people who are out after dark. But, nothing good comes from Matthew Strait, anytime of the day. That is a fact.

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He is sitting at the breakfast table when I come downstairs. It's been hard waking up since Ben got killed. I miss him. You sure didn't sleep once Ben got to crowing.

"Grab something quick to eat, you got chores to do, boy," he snarls.

I nod, no sense wasting words on him.

"Where's that dummy brother of yours?"

"Getting washed up."

"Well, go tell him to get his sorry ass down here now," he says, slapping the table with his open palm.

He sure is surly this morning. Maybe his mischief making didn't go as planned.

I dash up the stairs to find Dewey bent over the sink, splashing water on his face. "Hurry. He's full of piss and vinegar right now. We best get to doing chores."

Dewey looks at me through the mirror. "Shoot, I was hoping he'd be gone like yesterday. I'll tell you one thing," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "One day, he ain't gonna be sitting at that table ordering us around. That's for damn sure."

Dewey's changing, getting a hard edge to him. Like a dog who gets kicked one time too many, he's gonna turn on his master.

I clap my hand on his bare arm. "Well, he's down there now. Get yerself dressed."

Sweet simple Dewey is fading, fading right before my eyes and there ain't nothing I can do to change that. Maybe I ain't supposed to change it. This could be how it's supposed to be.