Heading Down

We shouldn’t raise mixed babiesin the South, Kay says as I drive up the crest of another hill on our way into Kentucky. The South, where humidity leaves a sweat mustache, where a truck with a Confederate flag painted on the back windshield skitters in front of us. In its bed, avoiding our eyes, a boy with blond hair split down the middle like a Bible left open to the Book of Psalms. His shirtless, sun-licked skin drapes, a thin coat for his bones, his clavicles sharp. I want to know who’s driving this raggedy truck. I want the boy to look at us. I want to spray paint a black fist over that flag. I want the truck to find its way into the ravine. I want to— Stepping on the gas, I pass the truck, Kay and I turn our heads. The boy smiles and waves. The man driving doesn’t turn his head, keeps his eyes on the road. Kay turns red as she draws her fingers into fists. I stare at the whites of her eyes.