At dusk, the shop door—left cracked for Dog’s return—pushes open. The Hammond boy, from up in the curve, backs his way in. “I brought you some food,” he says, with a glance as he turns, extending the foiled service. “There’s mixed beans in the bowl,” he explains, placing them on the bench opposite me. “Meat, taters, greens and cornbread on the plate.” I thank him. “You’re welcome,” he replies, already moving toward the door, as if instructed not to disrupt my work: the feasts I've made for you, spoiling in wait.