Emmitt was probably six or seven years old before he had realized what an unlikely friendship his mother and Miss Macie had.

It had been two weeks ago when the familiar feelings had slipped silently into his subconscious and then slowly into his more conscience thoughts. He had dealt with most of the tragedy in his life but there was still just a smidgen that would hide most of the time, back in the recesses and then wander itself out about twice a year. He could count on such a visit sometime during the holiday season which made perfect sense but usually in the hottest part of the summer he’d get a visit too.

Denise Cooper Hughes was not your normal mother. She had taken her husband leaving almost in stride because she had two boys to take care of but the death of Foster, her oldest son, had taken a lot of the spark out of her.

Thanksgiving time in North Central Florida was a mixed bag, one day could have you in shorts begging for shade and then an hour or so later a cold front could pass through with a little rain and clouds dropping the temperature to near freezing. This was not the Florida that most people thought about when they dreamed of the Sunshine State. These were not the sandy beaches or the sunburned tourists laying by the water.

Emmitt brushed the red ants off of his right hand and arm, he hated these little bastards. Now he would be itching and scratching for days with the little white blisters each and every bite left. He knew from past experience that unless he could pour ammonia over his arm almost immediately after getting bitten, there wasn’t much to be done, and there wasn’t any place to find ammonia out here in the hammock. They were going to itch until they didn’t and that’s all there was to it.