…but those old men troubled me. They were like scarecrows staked in gravel, hardly moving except to point at the big tin sky. They were lined up straight, and watched the clouds with old-man patience, waiting for something to come ahead, or fade away.
And there was Jeremiah, standing in the corn field, the same awful patience in his dark eyes, watching me.
“Get away from me,” I yelled. “Go somewhere else. I’m not yours anymore.” I hollered so loud that it hurt my throat. But he just stood there, and stared.
Sheriff Dunn pulled into the driveway, and if he heard me yelling, he was decent enough not to show it.