The afternoon waned slowly, and when the wind moved, it felt like the breath of the devil himself. It was the kind of day where sensible folk stayed inside and kids came back late, tired and bruised from the old swimming hole. Even the bugs crawled rather than flew.

Ma Pearson slowly rocked in her chair and sweated, a large glass of sweet tea sat untouched nearby.

“Ma, ma!” A collection of rowdy kids descended on to her porch. One and all, dirty with bare feet and and an air of excitement.

“What’s all the commotion for?” She asked.

A stocky child named Toby spoke up.

“We found ahselves a dead man!”

Despite her age, Ma Pearson leapt to feet.

“Take me there now!”

Children surrounded her like they were a swarm of bees and she their hive, buzzing here and there on their way, talking animatedly.

“We think he’s a drifter.”

“Or a hobo.”

“Papa says those are the same thing.”

As they reached the bridge, Toby pointed.

Ma Pearson gasped as she saw a familiar face.

“Oh James,” She said, “my baby boy.”