The First Night.

           Mr.McVeyhadworkedinBridgtoncuttingmeateversinceIwastwelveorthirteen,andIhadnoideawhathisfirstnamewasorhisagemightbe.Hehadsetupagasgrillunderoneofthesmallexhaustfans-thefanswerestillnow,butpresumablytheystillgavesomeventilation-andby6.30p.mthesmellofcookingchickenfilledthemarket.BudBrowndidn’tobject.Itmighthavebeenstock,butmorelikelyhehadrecognizedthefactthathisfreshmeatandpoultrywasn’tgettinganyfresher.Thechickensmelledgood,butnotmanypeoplewantedtoeat.Mr.McVey,smallandspareandneatinhiswhites,cookedthechickenneverthelessandlaidthepiecestwobytwoonpaperplatesandlinedthemupcafeteria-styleontopofthemeatcounter.

           Mrs.TurmanbroughtBillyandmeeachaplate,garnishedwithhelpingsofdelipotatosalad.IateasbestIcould,butBillywouldnotevenpickathis.

           "Yougottoeat,bigguy,"Isaid.

           "I’mnothungry,"hesaid,puttingtheplateaside.

           "Youcan’tgetbigandstrongifyoudon’t-"

           Mrs.Turman,sittingslightlybehindBilly,shookherheadatme.

           "Okay,"Isaid."Gogetapeachandeatit,atleast.’Kay?"

           "WhatifMr.Brownsayssomething?"

           "Ifhesayssomething,youcomebackandtellme."

           "Okay,Dad."

           Hewalkedawayslowly.Heseemedtohaveshrunksomehow.Ithurtmyhearttoseehimwalkthatway.Mr.McVeywentoncookingchicken,apparentlynotmindingthatonlyafewpeoplewereeatingit,happyintheactofcooking.AsIthinkIhavesaid,thereareallwaysofhandlingathinglikethis.