A letter from Papaw — Porch, before the heat.

The Cofield boy came to the door yesterday. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Had a sheet of paper and a box of something for the school band. I didn't catch what. I gave him forty dollars and waved off whatever he was supposed to hand me. Told him to give it to his grandmother.

Here's what I want to say to you, and I'm only going to say it the once.

If somebody you care about needs money, and you've got it to spare, give it. Don't lend it. Lending puts a thing between you that wasn't there before. You start watching for it. They start avoiding you. Pretty soon a fifty-dollar bill is sitting on the porch step between you and a man you've known thirty years, and neither one of you wants to step over it.

If you can't spare it, say so. Say it plain. A man who's worth anything would rather hear no on a Tuesday than be owed something on a Sunday.

Hank's flat on the kitchen floor. August heat in June already, the kind that gets into the bones. The whole neighborhood started up the mowers at seven this morning, the chorus of them, and Hank didn't even lift his head.

I got to get him some water.