train was traveling in anymore without the sun or stars to use as a guide.
As light finally came, he moved to look out the open doorway of the car, finding the land the train was traveling through to seem strange and flat to his eyes already longing for sight of the hilly red land of Eason County. There were wide expanses of winter-barren fields, broken by woods, houses, towns, and settlements, but it all seemed strange and new and unknown to him. He wondered what he would do now, with the little money that he had had now gone. He could not ride the rails forever, living like the tramps and hobos, hopping boxcars from town to town, begging, stealing, barely even getting by. He had to find a place to start, work he could do to earn money, a place to sleep, food to eat—and, at the moment, food seemed of the most importance. It had been more than a day now since he had last eaten, and he knew now as he sat staring out the open doorway, his arms folded over his empty, complaining stomach, that he had never been so hungry before in all his life.
Soon the train began to slow, coming into the outskirts of a small town. There were neat rows of white houses alongside the tracks, stretching for streets away through a village, the large, brick cotton mill at its center belching lint and smoke through the quiet town. Even though this land was much flatter, it reminded him too much of Pine, too much of the Easons’ cotton mill and the village, and memories came flooding back over him, renewing the hatred, and the determination—he would go back. The Easons had not beaten him yet, would never beat him. He would go back.
The train began to slow even further, drawing nearer to the depot—he would stay here for only a few days, find work that could give him food and a place to sleep, maybe even a little money. Then he would move on to some place less like Pine, some place that would bring fewer memories of a home he could no longer touch. Only a few days—
The train slowly came to a standstill at the depot, then rolled forward before finally stopping with a shudder alongside the platform. Janson moved back into the darkness within the car, not wanting to risk being seen before he could have the chance to leave the train. He gathered together his shoes and the portmanteau, then moved toward the doorway to risk a look out—but he quickly moved back. A man was making his way down the length of the train, checking cars as he went, pulling himself up to look inside each, and then moving on. He held a thick cudgel in one hand, which he pounded into the open palm of the other as he walked—only a few cars, and he would be at the one where Janson crouched hidden in the darkness. Only a few cars—
Janson risked another look out, seeing the man pull himself up into a car only a few distant. He knew he would be certain to be seen once the man reached this car, for there was no place to run, nowhere to hide. In a fair fight he knew he could hold his own with any man—but the cudgel changed the odds, and Janson Sanders would not easily submit to a beating at the hands of any man. He had only his two fists to defend himself with, but, even if there had been a weapon for his own use, he knew they were too close to the station. Others would come, and he would be beaten anyway.
He looked toward the woods that stood at a distance on the other side of the depot. There was a lot of open ground in between, but it was the only hope he had. He waited until the man had pulled himself up into the next car, then jumped down and started to run, holding his shoes and the portmanteau against his side. There was a shout and a curse from behind him, but he did not look back, keeping his eyes on the woods ahead as he ran, determined that he would not fall to that cudgel, determined that he would not—
He broke into the woods, low branches slapping at his face, brambles sticking his feet, vines almost tripping him—but he continued to run, hearing the man come crashing into the underbrush behind him. His side began to hurt with the effort, and he lost his shoes once only to have to stop and grab them up again, thinking that it seemed the man would never give up, that he would never turn back. A branch released too early lashed at his face and almost caught his eye; his left knee began to hurt again as it had not hurt since the night of the fire, threatening to fail him, threatening to end the flight—and then the sounds from behind him stopped.
Janson paused for a moment, listening, making certain, a cautious relief flooding over him as silence filled the woods. He limped over to a tree and dropped his things, leaning against its rough bark to catch his breath. After a time he looked around himself, realizing that he had no idea how to find his way out of the woods, or even how to find his way back to the depot. Then he sighed, picked up his things, chose a direction, and started to walk.
It began to rain long before he found his way clear of the woods, a cold, chilling rain that became a steady, icy downpour by the time he came to a clearing and found himself back at the edge of the town. He was soaked through to the skin, chilled, hungry, and hurting—and he already hated like hell this place he had found himself.
That was the longest day Janson felt that he ever lived through. He tried for hours, through the day and long into the evening, to find work he could do in exchange for a meal and a place he could spend the cold night ahead. He stopped at first one house and then another in the town, offering to chop wood or do chores, to do anything that might need to be done in exchange for food and dry shelter for one night—but at one house he was run off with a shotgun, at another a pan of dirty dishwater was thrown at him, chilling him only further. As afternoon came, he headed out into the countryside, believing that among the farm people he would surely find work, food, and a place he could rest—but dogs were set on him at one place, the door closed in his face at another. Sharecropping families said there was work to be done, but that they had trouble enough to feed their own. The more well-off farmers looked at him suspiciously and ordered him from their land. By evening he was tired and angry. It had been much more than a day now since he had last eaten, and he knew he would have to do something before darkness fell. He could not sleep out in the open tonight; the air felt chill and sharp, and the late afternoon sky looked right for a rare snow. He had no intention of freezing to death during the cold night ahead, not even if that meant having to put himself up in some farmer’s barn for the night without the owner’s knowing—but he had to do something about food. He would have to eat, and eat soon, and it would not be long before dark—
The house he chose was large and white, with dark-painted shutters on either side of its many windows. Electric light shone from within, and Janson could dimly hear the sounds of a radio playing as he crouched in the darkness, his eyes on the lighted windows. It was a big place, two stories, with six, tall white columns in the front, six matching ones in the rear, and a covered walkway leading to a large kitchen standing separate and apart at the back of the house. It was this latter structure that he watched now, seeing people go earlier to-and-fro over the walkway to the back veranda and in through a door to what had to be the dining room, a heavy-set woman in a dark dress with a bun of hair pinned at the back of her head, hurrying through the chill air with platters and bowls of what had to be steaming food. He could smell meats and gravy as he slipped closer to the house and spied in through the dining room windows—bowls and plates and serving dishes sat on the heavily-varnished table, heaped high with potatoes, beans, and corn. Nearby sat a platter covered with meat, another with what looked to be fresh-baked bread and creamy yellow butter; there was the smell of coffee, the sight of a deep-dish pie for dessert—his mouth was watering, and his empty stomach aching as he moved back into the darkness away from the house and waited for the lights to go out and the place to quiet down. He had come to a decision, a decision he had not wanted to make. Never once in all his life had he ever stolen from anyone—but tonight he would. Tonight he would steal food because he had to eat to live. Tonight he would become a thief.
He waited in the darkness, his resolve becoming easier with the passing minutes and with the smell of good food that came to him from both the house and the separate kitchen. He had known what he would have to do, had passed by the houses of the small farmers, and the shacks and shanties of the sharecroppers, until he had come upon this place. If he had to steal, then he would steal from someone who could afford it, from these rich folks, and not from some poor farmer or sharecropping family. These people, with their motor cars and their fancy clothes, their electric lights and running water and
