It was a Wednesday. I know this because on Wednesdays the Baptist church had family suppers.

And although I wasn't exactly a faithful Sunday churchgoer, I was a devout mid-week supper-eater.

That night, I stood in line behind a girl, holding my plate. She was funny. She had so much personality she hummed like a neon light.

Later, I sat beside her during service. That week, there was an out-of-town preacher. The kind with big hair, sweat rags, and nice shoes. He invited people to walk the aisle to get born again.

My pal, Craig,—who lost his religion every football season—recommitted for his thirtieth time. He said he felt something in the air that night.

I did too.

When service let out, the girl wasn’t ready to go home. Neither was I. So, I suggested we drive. She liked the idea—though I’ll never know why.

I pointed my vehicle east, we headed for nowhere, traveling as slow as my engine would run. The miles of pines made her more chatty. She propped her feet on my dashboard and

let the words roll.

She talked about things. About how she saw the world, about her favorite kind of mustard, about religion, and the proper way to eat fried chicken.

I gave one-syllable responses because I didn't want to interrupt. She had a voice that sounded like Escambia County in June.

By the time we landed in Port Saint Joe, her one-sided conversation had faded to a stop. I looked at her. She was sleeping.

So, I pulled into a gas station and got lukewarm coffee.

On the ride back, I thought long and hard. Not just about the sleeping girl, but about how I'd gotten a late start in life. And about how my childhood was a pitiful one.

So pathetic, in fact, it embarrassed me to talk about—kind of like I'm doing now.

When my father died, he left a…

This is a sure enough dive. A bona fide fertilizer hole with old floors, sticky walls, warm beer.

I drove a long way just to eat here—my cousin tells me this dump has the best burgers in Mississippi.

I'd be surprised.

At the bar: several fellas in camouflage. One man in a ten-gallon hat. Another, staring at the TV. And since it’s still legal to smoke in restaurants here, they're burning through as many Camels as they can before the Magnolia State changes its laws

There’s a woman in pink scrubs at the table beside me. Her young son is beside her, devouring a burger.

The kid says, “I made an EIGHTY-EIGHT on my math test, mom.”

“No way," she says. "For real?”

The boy coughs, then blows his nose. “I’m SECOND smartest in my CLASS, MOM!”

She hugs the Dickens out of him. Then, she flags the waitress for pie and ice cream. They eat. They laugh. Her face is rough and tired, but her eyes aren't.

Finally, the boy says, “When can I come live with you? I don't wanna live

with Dad anymore."

She stops eating. I can see she wants to say something, but mamas can't always say what's on their minds.

“Mom?”

“Eat your pie, sweetie.”

The mood goes from giddy to sour. His smile fades. She pets his hair. He hacks between bites.

After a few minutes, a man walks through the door. He’s wearing boots and he's all smiles. She greets him but he doesn't acknowledge her.

He pats the boy on the back and says, “You ready, man?”

The boy gets his backpack, then embraces his mama so hard he almost breaks her. He coughs.

“Make sure he takes his antibiotics," she tells the man.

But he doesn't answer. He walks out without glancing in the woman's direction.

"Love you, sweetie!" she hollers. "Take those antibiotics!"

She might as well be mute.…