Andy tore off a piece of bread and used it to scrape the last bits of pasta from his plate. He wiped the bottom of his tee-shirt across his mouth and attacked another helping and then another. His tee shirt forever marking the occasion.

Two plates of spaghetti and Mitchell’s belly was full. He licked his lips and sighed and shoved his fist under the empty plate to balance it on the thumb side of his hand. He set the plate on the cooler and worked his fingers into the handle of the water jug. "You definitely have talent," he said and took a long drink of warm water. "Real talent." The words were just there, at the end of his appetite.

With his legs stretched across the couch Andy took an old green candle down from the shelf and lit it. The tiny flame shrunk then disappeared into the darkening cabin shadows. He lit the candle again but the wick refused a flame, so he took out his pocket knife and dug at the wax.

"No one told me you were adopted," Mitchell said. "All these years. That was quite a surprise."

A soft smile transformed Andy’s face. "My mother told me when I was five." He was focused on the candle. "We talked about it a lot. It was hard to understand at first."

"I’ll bet."

"It’s okay." Andy poked his knife into the candle.

"That’s it? It’s just okay?"

"Yeah. I’m okay."

"You said you wondered who your real parents were. What about that?"

Andy dug at the wax. "Sometimes I do. That’s normal."

Jesus, it beats me, Mitchell thought. Maybe it is that simple. So be it, I’m not a therapist.

"Well, anyway, you’re the most promising member of the family. What’s left of it. Without you whose credit card would we use?" His thoughts wandered off with evening’s last light. "Have I told you about my pool hall days?"

Andy gave him a tolerant mother-for-her-child glance.

"I had finished my summer job," Mitchell said. "So I collected my pay and drifted to the city to find work. I was sixteen by then." He reached his hands behind his head to stretch the curl from his fingers, cradling his memories. "I found a room and a good job in a factory. In the basement under the restaurant where I ate suppers there was a pool hall."

Night was crouched in the cabin as if all the world were hushed and listening. Mitchell had no idea why he was telling Andy about the wanderings of his youth. He just needed to talk, to hear it and know what it sounded like.

"Ray was the owner. He was an ex-heavyweight with a voice like steel and a heart of putty. When it came to pool he knew what he was doing, but it was Larry who was the draw. Larry was a hustler. Nothing else. He was older than me and I liked that because he wasn’t too old. Like the dull men who were the regulars. Ray had some kind of unspoken language with them. They were always around, especially when the money games were on. Larry didn’t pay them any attention. Probably because they weren’t impressed with him. Hell, I’m still impressed. He came back to town one afternoon driving a new Lincoln with Tennessee plates. Can you imagine? Winning a car with a pool cue? Not one goddamn payment.