It was a cold September evening, unseasonably cold, I’d add. The town, the whole town, met down by the new barn, the one they’d raised together the month before. That had been a happy occasion. The faces hung low though this night, not a grin or chuckle to be seen.

“Y’all knows why we’s here. Le’s git on wi’ it,” Old Clyde spoke hesitantly, and everyone knew he was as unhappy to proceed as the rest. That’s leadership, ain’t it?

The crowd stirred, an uncomfortable shuffling of feet. A bit more jostling and she was brought to the front of the group, hands folded in front her and eyes downcast. He was hers, promised to her if she would have him, if she would save him.

Old Clyde squatted down on the raised loading dock of the barn to address her in his kindly way, “Naw girl, lissen good girl, we’uns all knows what he done. Th’ole county know what he done, and what he d’serves. But I’m a askin’ ye girl, and only ye, is he worth savin’?”

And then she said the word, the word that killed him, “No.”