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«
Yeah
,
"
said
Tom
slowly
.
«
Yeah
.
»
«
An
’
here
’
s
another
thing
.
Ever
hear
a
’
the
blacklist
?
»
«
What
’
s
that
?
»
«
Well
,
you
jus
’
open
your
trap
about
us
folks
gettin
’
together
,
an
’
you
’
ll
see
.
They
take
your
pitcher
an
’
send
it
all
over
.
Then
you
can
’
t
get
work
nowhere
.
An
’
if
you
got
kids
—
"
Tom
took
off
his
cap
,
and
twisted
it
in
his
hands
.
«
So
we
take
what
we
can
get
,
huh
,
or
we
starve
;
an
’
if
we
yelp
we
starve
.
»
The
young
man
made
a
sweeping
circle
with
his
hand
,
and
his
hand
took
in
the
ragged
tents
and
the
rusty
cars
.
Tom
looked
down
at
his
mother
again
,
where
she
sat
scraping
potatoes
.
And
the
children
had
drawn
closer
.
He
said
,
«
I
ain
’
t
gonna
take
it
.
Goddamn
it
,
I
an
’
my
folks
ain
’
t
no
sheep
.
I
’
ll
kick
the
hell
outa
somebody
.
»
«
Like
a
cop
?
»
«
Like
anybody
.
»
«
You
’
re
nuts
,
"
said
the
young
man
.
«
They
’
ll
pick
you
right
off
.
You
got
no
name
,
no
property
.
They
’
ll
find
you
in
a
ditch
,
with
the
blood
dried
on
your
mouth
an
’
your
nose
.
Be
one
little
line
in
the
paper
—
know
what
it
’
ll
say
?
’
Vagrant
foun
’
dead
.
’
An
’
that
’
s
all
.
You
’
ll
see
a
lot
of
them
little
lines
,
’
Vagrant
foun
’
dead
.
’
"
