Sally asked, her nose practically pressed to the window as she watched the boys hand Hatcher the container of water. Kate stood at her friend’s side. Her worry about the crop had been like a heavy necklace—a thing supposedly of adornment and pleasure, grown to be, if not resented then something first cousin to it, and now it’d been removed. She felt airy; her feet could barely stay still. “A hobo I hired to put in the crop.” Sally spun around. “He’s one of those filthy, shiftless men?” She turned back to the window, straining for a better look. “Look how dirty he is. His hair sticks out around his hat. He needs a haircut. I don’t know how you can stand there so calm about having a man like him just a few feet away. And to think you invited him to stay here? You might as well invite a rabid dog into your home. Kate, have you taken leave of your senses?” Sally’s reaction stole Kate’s smile, killed thoughts of a happy dance. “Of course he’s dirty. He’s working in the field and I haven’t invited him into my house.
