Page 41 of The Serpent King

Q. Who are your favorite designers/houses?

A. Rodarte, Rick Owens, Vivienne Westwood, Prada, Billy Reid (I’m still a Southerner).

Q. Are you a lesbian?

A. The answer to this very much depends on who’s asking. If it’s any of the above-mentioned ladies, the answer is an emphatic yes. The Birthday Party–era Nick Cave? No. Young Willem de Kooning? No. Labyrinth-era David Bowie? No. Bottle Rocket–era Luke Wilson? No. The Royal Tenenbaums–era Luke Wilson? Also no.

If the asker is yet another random Internet troll who literally believes, in this day and age, that it’s an insult to call someone gay—in a passive-aggressive manner no less—then the answer is whatever makes you the most uncomfortable, threatens your sense of self, and throws your tiny brain into a tizzy. So the answer is probably yes, I am a raging lesbian. All other askers I take on a case-by-case basis.

Okay, that’s enough for now. More later. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of my haul this last Saturday from the antique store up the street from my house. That’s the other thing the South rocks, by the way. Antique stores.

As she uploaded her post, she looked across the library table at Travis. He was texting vigorously with a faraway expression on his face. He didn’t look carefree, per se. But as close to it as she’d ever seen him. Travis read a text and started giggling silently. He put his forehead on the table and shook with muted laughter.

His laughter was so infectious and jubilant, she couldn’t help but be taken in. “Okay, dude. What? Who are you texting?”

He wiped his eyes. “No one. Nothing.”

She regarded him with good-natured suspicion. “You are the world’s worst liar.”

Dill finished loading Ms. Relliford’s groceries in her car.

She reached out a shaky hand with a dollar. “Here you are, young man. Thank you so much for your help. Have a blessed day.”

Dill accepted the dollar and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Yes ma’am, thank you. Have a blessed day.”

He took his sweet time walking the cart back into the store, relishing the brief moment spent outside before returning to the air-conditioned cold and slight smell of rotting meat and spoiled vegetables of Floyd’s.

Dill loved being on bagging duty on these early evenings in late September. The sun was still strong, but it lacked the vitality of the summer sun. It felt faded. He caught a subdued hint of cut grass wafting from somewhere. How was it possible for love of a place and hatred of it to exist so comfortably side by side?

As he approached the store, wrestling the cart (how did shopping carts always have at least one bum wheel?), a little girl rode the chipped, plastic coin-operated pony ride out front.

Dill smiled at her.

She giggled. “I’m riding the pony!”

“Yeah, you are! Good job, lil’ cowgirl!”

The ride stopped and the little girl swung her leg over the pony to dismount. In her rush she caught her sandal on a curl on the pony’s mane, and tumbled face-first to the hard concrete. She scraped her chin. She looked at Dill for a second with huge, blue eyes filling with tears.

Uh-oh.

She began to wail. Like a tornado siren.

Dill ran over and knelt beside her, rubbing her back. “Oh no! Sweetie! Hey, hey, don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s okay. Shhhhh. Where’s your mama?”

She was inconsolable.

Dill picked her up gently, murmuring in her ear. “Hey now, hey, let’s go find Mama, okay? We’re gonna find Mama.”

Then, from the end of the parking lot, frantic shouting. “Hey! Hey! What are doing?! Put her down!”

Dill looked up to see a wild-eyed woman sprinting toward him. He set down the little girl, who was still howling. “Ma’am, is this your—”

“What did you do to her? Why is she crying?” the woman shrieked. She knelt and shook her daughter by the shoulders. “Daisy. Daisy, honey, what’s wrong?”

A crowd had begun to gather. “Go get the store manager,” someone said. “Allison, is everything okay?” someone else called.

Dill’s face burned. “Ma’am, I was just walking by and she was riding the pony and she f—”