A rotund figure righted from his work and tucked his chin to let a rolling, rumbling emanation escape his gullet. He paused, then drawled, “Mmm, Fritos, Dr. Pepper, and just a hint of sugar snap peas.”

“Seriously,” Camden said, mostly to himself, “You’re disgusting.”

“I,” retorted the large man, “am a goddam connoisseur.”

Pausing from his own shoveling, Camden corrected, “I’m pretty sure any combination of belching and the word connoisseur is paradoxical or at least an oxymoron.”

A gruff voice came from the cab of a nearby pickup truck, “You and yer durn five dollar words. Less yappin, more diggin.”

The large man bristled, “That ol boy flaps his toothless gums more than…”

“I heared that!” shot the voice from the truck. Camden could only roll his eyes and return to digging—twenty yards to go for this pipe section, fifty for the next phase, and an eternity before he’d have enough money to leave Yazoo County.

His portly fellow asked through the dust, “So, you still readin them books of yers?”