The wooden supports shook from the metal-on-metal grinding of train and train tracks. Sparks rained down into the dry riverbed below the rails, and the whistle’s blare filled the air. The cars rushed headlong toward their destination, and after they had passed, the plucking of a steel-string guitar slowly became audible. The notes were bent and buzzed, and they followed the rambling melody of an old blues number.
“I’m gonna kill him, Jed.”
This pronouncement was followed by the slight scratching sound of finger nails against cardboard.
The guitar continued on. The raspy voice grew irritated.
“You hear me, Jed?! I’m gonna kill him!”
The guitar stopped. The man playing it brushed away his stringy hair and turned to face the haphazard shelter that had been made out of refrigerator boxes. There was one small opening out of which the raspy voice escaped. It was dark, and the owner of the voice could not be seen.
“I know, Earl,” replied the man with the stringy hair. “We’ll get him for what he did to you.”