The news was picked up there, and late one evening when Sweed’s M’dear fell asleep watching TV, the reporter made his announcement. Sweed was passing by on his way to the kitchen when he heard. He stopped cold; his heart thumped as he listened: Loveless police are investigating the disappearance of Alison Tucker, fifteen-years-old, last seen five days ago at McNeal’s General Store around 8:00 PM. She’s described as fair complexioned, blond, and approximately ninety lbs. She was wearing a blue jacket and tan shorts. An eye-witness saw her get into the backseat of a dark car with white tails. The driver of the automobile was a Negro male, approximately twenty to thirty years old. If you have any information, please contact the Chicago Police Department. They are working in cooperation with Loveless officials.

Sweed felt for the sofa to collect himself. Fifteen? He looked over at M’dear sleeping in her wing chair, her wiry gray head pitched back and snoring. Suddenly, the face of the old man at the general store in Loveless loomed at him.

He wondered if Ricky had heard. He needed to find out. He went to Ricky’s place. Mrs. Chiles greeted him, all smiles with her muffin cheeks and protruding coffee stained teeth. She still had on her dishwashing apron, wiping her palms against the apple pockets and telling Sweed, “Well, well, we haven’t seen you in days. Come in. Ricky’s in his room. He came down with something, it seems. He says he doesn’t want his mama fussing around him. Maybe seeing you will do him some good.”

He nodded and was glad that she didn’t try to make conversation like usual. Instead, she disappeared back into the kitchen. Sweed took the stairs by twos, like he always did, up to Ricky’s room.

When Sweed saw him, he didn’t have to ask. Ricky sat on his bedside holding his face. He looked up like he’d been kicked in the gut and was trying to hold back the painful tears. Sweed closed the door but didn’t come any closer.

“We gotta get our stories straight,” he said.

Ricky shook his head, telling him, “I ain’t going to jail. I can’t go to jail, man,” he sniveled.

“You need to hold it together.” Sweed walked to him. “You can’t go round crying. Guilty folks cry.”

Ricky put his head down again.

“Look at me,” Sweed told him. He did. “If you crack, we both go down. If you play it cool, maybe this’ll blow over. But we gotta be prepared.”

Ricky walked to his window overlooking the backyard, now washed in moonlight. “I was thinking. I got this uncle in Florida…” His voice trailed off. He turned to Sweed. “They haven’t found her,” he whispered. “Folks could think maybe she just ran off some place. Right?”

Sweed got within inches of his face. “Like I said, we gotta be prepared. We never went up to the cabin. You hear? I had car trouble so we couldn’t make the trip. You stayed over at my place. M’dear, she won’t remember.”

“What if they wanna see your car? What if they test it for fingerprints or something?”

Sweed took a step back, shifting his eyes. He hadn’t thought about that.

“You gonna get rid of your car?” Ricky asked him. “You got to, man.”

“I can—Maybe I can drive it someplace. Keep it outta sight for a while.”

“And if they ask where it is? They’ll find it, man. And if they do—if they figure out you was lying—”

“Hey, I’m not the one who messed with the white girl.”

“What? You wanna start pointing fingers? You think that’s gonna matter to the cops, man?”

Sweed jabbed a finger at him. “You had to do it. Why her? Why you couldn’t be satisfied with your own?”

“Don’t lecture me. If you coulda, you woulda done the same,” Ricky shot back, jutting an arrogant chin at him.

“This ain’t about you being better than me. It’s about you being stupid. Niggas get killed for less.”

Right then, Sweed was just as mad at himself as he was scared. Mad because he was the one stupid enough not to listen to his gut. For the last few days, he couldn’t get out of his head all the things he should’ve said: Man, that’s dangerous goods, let’s drive on. Ricky, the pink ain’t worth it. But he hadn’t said any of those things, and now he wondered why. Maybe because he didn’t want to look like the punk. Or maybe because he could never admit that Ricky was right. The image of Alison still trapped in his secret tin box beneath his bed.

“Look,” Ricky said, holding out his palms, “I just—I just can’t go to jail, man. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes not to. My uncle in Florida, I know he’d let me crash there.”

Sweed narrowed his eyes at him. “You’d split on me?”

Ricky let out a tired sigh, sitting on his bed again. “I’m going to college in a few weeks, man.”