For a moment I watched as if from above, Davey and I below in the bed of the pickup as it bounced along the gravel road, kicking up a rooster tail of dust across the sagebrush flat. I saw what was happening, what would happen. And then I was in the truck again, hands pressing against the roof of the cab to steady myself, Davey's arm cocking, the yellow-ripe apple flung, the old man staggering, stumbling beside the road. Davey crowing a loud war whoop as we passed, shouting, "Dumb Injuns." Who was he? I wondered.
Tom Lassiter teaches writing and literature at Florida Atlantic University. He’s at work on a novel and a collection of short stories. His work has appeared in Tropic magazine and at Verbsap.com.