The boy took the blind man’s big paw, turning it over. “You got a mark on ya.”

“Old cut from back when I used to work the cotton. Them bristles reach out and GET YA!” Bill spooked Isaiah, who shrieked, then laughed. He liked Bill, liked being teased by the old man. It made him think of his daddy, how he used to swing Isaiah up by both of his arms when they walked down the street, and his mother would scold the both of them, saying, “Now, Marvin, you’re going to stretch his arms clean out.” Thinking about his mama and daddy made him sad.

They’d reached the small alley Bill had told him to be on the lookout for. “Shortcut,” he said to the old man.

“Thank you.” Bill’s walk slowed. “You all right there, little man? You sound sad.”

“Just thinking about my mama. She died.”

“Well. That is sad.” Bill slowed just a hair more. The alley, he knew, would dead-end at a brick wall. He’d slept there a few times. “I could take the sad right out of your head if you want.”

“How you gonna do that?”

“Come on over here and I’ll show you.”

Isaiah was dubious. It wasn’t just that his auntie had told him about being careful with strangers; Blind Bill wasn’t a stranger, exactly. There was just a moment’s pause, something deep down that made him wary, but he followed Bill anyway.

“Not much of a shortcut, Mr. Johnson. Got a brick wall at the other end.”

“My mistake. Must’ve been thinking of another street. Hard for a blind man, you know. Now come on over here. Come on, now.”

Isaiah looked back down the alley at the empty street.

“You not scared, are you? Special fella like you?”

“No. I ain’t scared,” Isaiah said. Not scared, Memphis would say. Well, Memphis wasn’t there. Isaiah went to the old man.

“I just have to put my hand on your head, like so. That tickle?”

It did just a bit, and Isaiah laughed.

“I take that as a yes. How ’bout here?” Bill moved his hand forward so that the tips of his fingers gripped the front of Isaiah’s forehead firmly.

“That’s good.”

“All right, then. Gonna be a little squeeze, and then you won’t feel sad no more.”

Anymore, Isaiah silently corrected. Just like Memphis. He had a sudden premonition about his brother, the growing sense that he was in trouble, that something wasn’t right.

“I have to go home, Mr. Johnson. Octavia’ll be waiting dinner on me.”

“Just hold still, son.”

“I have to go.”

“Don’t struggle, now. Don’t struggle.”

Panic beat its fists against Isaiah’s rib cage. The sense of dread bloomed into a terrifying vision: He saw his brother standing at a crossroads under a blackening sky.

“Let me go!” Isaiah shouted, trying in vain to break free from Bill’s fierce grip. “Let me go, let me go!”

Bill grunted and held on tightly and was rewarded by the electric jolt.

Under his grip, Isaiah twitched and shook, and if it was anything like the past, when he could see, Bill knew the boy’s eyes had rolled back in their sockets. Maybe a small bit of drool foamed in the corners of his mouth. Bill’s own heartbeat sped up, and for a second he remembered running through tobacco fields barefoot under skies that stretched in every direction. A number floated before him—one, four, four. A number. He’d gotten a number in the bargain! Another jolt rocked Bill’s body, stronger than the first. His tongue curled in his mouth and he tasted metal. He saw a crossroads, and a cloud of dust billowing up on the road as if before a storm, and tall, gray stick of a man in a stovepipe hat. Under his palm, the boy was still and quiet. He dropped to the pavement at Bill’s feet and the old man crouched next to him, listening to the sound of his breathing.

“Hey! Hey!” someone yelled from the street.

Bill cursed under his breath and pulled his hand back. “Over here! We need help over here!”

The voice moved toward them and became the dim outline of a man. A shadow. Oh, if only he’d had a few more moments! How much more could he see? How much more power could he taste?

“What happened?” The man’s voice was hard, accusatory.

“I don’t know. The little man was lost. I was trying to help him find his way, and he started having some kind of fit, I think. I couldn’t rightly tell ’cause of my condition.” Bill put a hand on his cane. “I been calling out—didn’t you hear me?”