Mist makes the mistake of asking Docker when are they going home. She spends time with Docker's boys. Docker's men abuse them. A woman called "No-Face" has a secret.

They came to me when they were hungry, liked being told when to get up and when to go to bed, and regular meals.  Color had come back to their cheeks.  One morning on his way out, Docker grabbed my arm.

"You're feeding those runts too much.  We're going to run outta food, keep that up."

            "Docker, there's plenty.  Why?  How long are we going to be here?"
            "Hard to say --"

"Another week?" I ventured, "We've been here almost one, already.  I've got to get back."  He squeezed my arm.  I drew in my breath, wincing.  "Knock it off, man.  I'm not one of your toadies."

"Sorry, babe.  It won't be too much longer.  Just don't feed them so much.  They're going to be little butterballs pretty soon."

The next morning, I told the kids we'd have to cut back.

"We're just going to have biscuits and hot chocolate."  I mixed dry milk in with the flour, baking soda, and salt, ready to add water.  Docker slid down the ladder.  The kids vanished soon as they saw him coming.  Barely awake, he took one look at me, stumbled over with his pants unzipped, took out his thing and pissed in the biscuit mix.

            "Stop feeding the brats, I told you."  He swiped the bowl, plates, silverware, everything off the table. 

            "Man, Docker, I don't believe this!" I screamed at him, "You are too fucking much!  I wish I'd never come."  I started cleaning up the mess.  He grunted, went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

            I found the boys down by the creek and gave them some dried fruit and a couple of sticks of jerky.  Later, Docker apologized while weaving an iridescent feather in my hair and reiterated his order about feeding the kids.  From then on, I sneaked them food.  They lost weight and soon were back to the fragile little beings they were when I first saw them.  No one else seemed to eat.  Just drink. 

One day, early in the second week, carrying a bundle of clothes up from the creek, I watched the three little boys skip past some guys hunched in a filthy plot, a few feet from the porch.  One stuck out his leg and tripped Papa Jo, who fell to the ground, crying.  Billy-Bob and Tadpole turned and ran back to their friend.  Another grabbed Billy-Bob, shouting to a man standing nearby,

            "Hey, he's a big one, Hairball.  Look I caught me a big one."

            "Don't let the Doc see ya!" the man he called Hairball warned.  I threw down the bundle and ran as though through quicksand, to stop the bullies from carrying on with their game.

            "Let me go!" Billy-Bob screamed.  Papa Jo butted the man's leg with his head.  The man threw Billy-Bob across his knees and started working the boy's pants down over his scrawny hips. 

            "This kid needs to be taught a little humility," he chortled.  Billy-Bob cried, writhing to free himself.  Tadpole and Papa Jo struggled to pull him from the man's grasp.  Hairball, a big guy over six feet, in faded denims and a sheep-wool lined green plaid jacket, snatched up the little ones and dangled them by their arms like a couple of wriggling fish at the end of a line.  He knocked their heads together and tossed them to the ground.  Reaching them, I dropped to my knees and hugged the red-head and Papa  Jo.

"You bully!  Let the boy go!" I yelled, catching my breath.  The men hooted.  The man holding Billy-Bob hollered to his friend in the green jacket.  "Hey, Chet you ol' hairball, gimme yer belt.  I wanna teach this kid some humility."  Hairball whipped off his belt.  "Yo!  Sandman, catch!"  Like a snake it sailed, a black S, against the dense blue sky.  The man caught the belt and raised it into the air over the child's white buttocks.  The boy bucked and flailed, then froze; his eyes wide.  "But, Hairball, we gotta take care we don't damage the merchandise," Sandman muttered.  I let go of the younger two and lunged at Sandman, grabbing his arm.  Something hard slid off the side of my head.  I raised my hands to protect it from another blow and heard the clink of glass against my bracelet.  The bottle bounced off my forearm and rolled away.  Billy-Bob leaped from Sandman's lap, hiked up his pants and fled towards the creek.  Tadpole and Papa Jo skittered after him.  The man tossed Hairball back his belt.

            "See that kid take off?  Hoo-eee!" Sandman howled, "I'll get his skinny ass good, next time!  Don't go tryin' nothin'," he yelled after them.

            I sensed movement behind me and turned.  Squinting against the smoke from cigarettes dangling from the corners of their pale lips, women gathered in a half-circle around me, clutching their half-pints and beer bottles.  A couple of kids peeked from between their legs.

"Sister, don't butt in," they chorused, "if you know what's good for you.  Women don't interfere with what our men do.  Hear?"

"Leave her alone," another addressed the group, "You don't want Docker on your ass.  She better not tell him about this, if she knows what's good for her."  A dark woman with short black hair, whom I'd seen corralling Docker when she thought I wasn't looking, glanced at me with hurt in her eyes, her body tense.  She took a step forward, then checked herself.

            Rubbing my throbbing head, I went to the creek and found the kids climbing the oak and playing in the tree-house.  I told them from now on I'd walk them to the cabin after sunset and see that they left in the morning before their harassers woke.  I went to find Docker to tell him what happened, but he was nowhere around and I didn't want to ask anyone.  At dusk, the boys and I strolled up the bank from a hike we'd taken a little way down the creek.  I saw the dark-haired woman slip away from the others.  Coming toward me, she peered over her shoulder and concealed herself behind tree trunks like a character out of a bad film.  

"Keep Tadpole and Papa Jo by the oak," I whispered to Billy-Bob, "till I come back."

"Over here," The woman hissed.  I followed her voice.

Frogs burped and bellowed; crickets droned on and on.  She was waiting for me on the bank in a stand of firs beside the creek; she grabbed my arm and pulled me close.  Her body exuded the pungent, metallic odor of fear, overriding the fragrance of damp earth and pine.

            "What's wrong," I said.

"I'm No-Face," she said, "You're Sally, I know."  She hung her head, looked at me obliquely, lifting her shoulders and dropping them, giggling nervously.

"Where did you get that name?"  Her face was small with big brown eyes and full lips.

            "It's not important."  She inhaled, moving her hand to the front of her long-sleeved, blue cotton shirt.  "Look, I--" she started to say, falling silent at the sound of a twig snapping.  "They'll see me talking to you--"  She drew an index finger across her throat and backed away.

            "It's probably just the kids. What did you want to tell me?"

To be continued . . . .