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His father calls out behind him, "Sammie! Samuel!" and he nearly falls when he tries to swing himself into the seat; he jars his knee on the chassis where he'd hit it falling from the window. The pain is a hot red burst. But he catches himself and makes it the second time. He can't see for tears. He hits the gas.
The fields are nearly empty and the air is hot and dry; the car shakes and shakes on the dirt road. He drives one-handed, clinging to the neck of the dead guitar as if it were a body.
The lodging house is for young men working on the river, and there's small text at the bottom of the sign that says, Breakfast included. Supper not included. No ladies. No parties. Doors locked at 10pm.
"No, ma'am," he says. "I'm no trouble. Don't get out at night much. Just trying to get on."
She nods approvingly. The bed is good and nearly private. The other men look at him odd; one asks about his face, which still cracks and bleeds when he smiles, and the others shush him.
There are hours between sunset and the locking of the doors.
He takes a Sunday to go back. He leaves as early as he can stomach, grey light turning golden, and drives back to Clarksdale in the car folks all think he stole. There are new bullet holes in the mill doors and broken glass in the dirt.
He heard Smoke died. He’s halfway thinking it’s not true, maybe he faked it, maybe he’s back in Chicago. Waiting.
He leaves his shoes and dives into the grey lake. Mouth full of mud, he comes back up with the resonator in his hand, dented from the devil, silver still, never Charley Patton’s.